


My Fare Lady

by Epon_Aruim



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Canon Divergence, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, an englishman and a japanese woman in a french controlled port, because every movie after 3 is going to be cherry-picked canon-wise, depictions of drinking/sex/violence mostly on par with what's in the movies, implied sexual violence mostly in backstories, jack sparrow may not make any proper canon appearance i'm not sure yet, tags to be added as we go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25527337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epon_Aruim/pseuds/Epon_Aruim
Summary: Commodore James Norrington is no longer a commodore, and heads to Tortuga to...well, he isn't sure. Drown his sorrows, or take one more shot at capturing Jack Sparrow, perhaps. But the rough-and-tumble of Tortuga is no place for a well-bred man, unless he wants to get kicked in the...well, generally kicked.Enter Florence, a bar tender at the Faithful Bride, a woman exiled from her country and stuck in the gutters far from home. She sees in this tarnished, stubborn Englishman a chance to better herself--or her English, at any rate. In exchange for food and drink, he agrees to tutor her. Steeped in grime, crime, and time, an unusual friendship is born.(an early version of this was originally posted to ff . net and 5 years later i'm finally giving it a proper go)
Relationships: James Norrington/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 57





	1. Flo and the Navy Man

**Author's Note:**

> this story has been 5 years in the making and HAHA i'm not even finished writing it yet. generally i don't like to post anything that isn't already fully written and edited, especially since i am my editor, but that often leads to me never finishing jack shit
> 
> here's hoping posting will make me feel some sort of accountability!
> 
> also: the oc is Japanese. why? because i am Japanese and i've never really seen it done before. although this style of fic has been done to DEATH with dear ol' James from what i remember of my avid fanfic reading days. this is most definitely self-indulgent

It is often said of many great cities that they “never sleep.” Tortuga was neither great, nor a proper city, and to say that it “never slept” would be a little misleading. It would be more accurate to say it was nocturnal, and those who were awake in the daylight hours were generally hungover. Those who weren’t hungover were either too broke to afford it, or had something wrong with them, in the view of those hungover.

Florence was one of the teetotalers, which was only the second most distinguishing thing about her. The first would be readily apparent to any who laid eyes on her.

She worked the bar of the _Faithful Bride_ in the day, though this mostly consisted of cleaning up the messes of the night. Often, this included rolling out unconscious bodies into the street, like smellier, squishier beer barrels. It was an unpleasant task, but she preferred it to the chaos of the nights; at least she didn’t regularly have to threaten people with a knife just to move a foot in any direction. She’d worked a few, when the other girls were busy or sick or, depressingly often, dead. Give her cleanup duty any day.

There had been fewer bodies to haul out today than usual, and by midmorning the bar was about as clean as it ever was, which meant some of the glasses could be considered transparent. There were two conscious people at the bar now, and they sipped their drinks with the sullen silence of those who could stay in that position for three days straight without moving. She stood, attempting to polish the caked-in grime off a tankard, and almost smiled.

The door opened, letting a beam of sunlight pierce the gloom behind the bar. It wasn’t that the _Bride_ didn’t have windows, it was simply that they were all either

a) broken, and boarded up with wood, the expense of putting new glass in not being seen as worth it in this town that was essentially one big brawl at any given time, or

b) so caked with dirt, rust, and human what-have-you that only the most determined light got in.

One of the patrons nearly hissed, as though he was some sort of vampire. Flo looked up, and her hands froze for the merest fraction of a second. Silhouetted in the door was…

The door closed, and she tried to blink her vision back to normal, staring at the newcomer. She’d made out a tall, angular silhouette, probably a man, and definitely a tricorn hat. That wasn’t unusual, but for a moment she’d have sworn the light had glinted off gold braid…

The figure made its way to the bar, slowly. It wasn’t the slowness of the drunk or hungover, just a steady, snail-pace walk, as though the figure were in shock. That wasn’t so unusual either, but when the stranger came into the light of a lamp, she pinched her lips together in surprise.

“A drink, please, madam,” the figure said, in a low, rumbling voice that matched his walk. It was also very, very posh.

“Of course, sir. What do you like?” she asked, with a somewhat unusual accent, as she took in his fine but somewhat rumpled uniform. British Navy, and an officer at that…this was going to be trouble. He looked mildly surprised at her response, which she was used to.

“If it is alcohol, I will accept whatever you feel you can offer me,” he said wearily. She nodded, pulling out the special occasion brandy from under the bar. It was expensive, and generally available only upon request. But officers usually had money, and one had to make a living. He sat on the stool, back straight, but head low, as though his hat were made of iron. He wore the usual powdered wig, but its curls were starting to unravel, and was somewhat askew. He looked a beaten man, and you got to know the signs when you lived in Tortuga. There were seldom any other kind.

“Here you are, sir,” she said, placing a glass in front of him. He, for the first time then, looked up, and she saw his eyes. They were a stormy grey and, she could see in an instant, heartbroken. Again, not unusual. Tortuga swept up in its filthy arms all those who were broken down and abandoned by Fate. But you didn’t often see official types here, or at least, none that so openly flaunted it, because most understood that that was akin to waving a red flag in front of a bull. An entire pen full of bulls, in fact, and it was no comfort that most of them were drunk. That just meant they didn’t know how to _stop_.

“Thank you,” he said, dropping his gaze and taking the glass. It was one of the clean ones. He stared at it for a long moment, then took a sip. She should have busied herself elsewhere—tankards didn’t clean themselves—but the sight of him somehow arrested her to the spot. Carefully, she leaned forward a bit.

“May I offer you warning, sir?” she said, her voice low. He raised an eyebrow at her.

“For what?”

She nodded at his uniform. “Your clothes. You will get into trouble. Most here, pirates. They do not like Navy men.”

His grip on the glass noticeably tightened. “The feeling is mutual, madam. Thank you for your concern.” And that seemed to be it. Shrugging, she held out a hand. He raised an eyebrow at it, and she simply smiled.

“Pay first. Not good business, Navy men running tabs. Usually they die,” she said, and he scoffed, reaching into his coat. He laid a coin in her palm. She glanced at it and shook her head. “Two more.”

“What? For this watery—oh, very well,” he groused, producing the money. She took it and bowed.

“Thank you very much.”

“Next time, I will take whatever is _cheapest_ ,” he said. She nodded and went back to work.

Perhaps because of its expense, the Navy man lingered over his first drink, and it was some time before he waved her over again.

“The cheapest?” she asked as she reached him, already pulling out a bottle. He hesitated.

“What _is_ …that?” he asked, staring at the dark contents warily. She shrugged.

“Leftovers,” she said simply, and took pity on him, at his look of apprehension. She produced a different bottle. “Not cheapest,” she said, tapping it, “but safest. Rum.”

He gave a sigh and nodded. She handed him the bottle, and he gave her a half-hearted glare.

“In a _glass_ , please…I’d like to pretend I haven’t sunk so low all at once, madam,” he said. She shrugged. She’d seen it all before. How long until he forgot about glasses?

She poured him a normal measure, although by Tortugan standards it would be a mere mouthful. She used the same glass that had held his brandy, something he raised an eyebrow at. In answer, she raised a grimy, cloudy glass from a shelf. He stared in disgust, then, after paying her, settled down with his rum. How long until he stopped noticing the grime?

For most men who came in wearing the type of haggard look this man did, she’d give them three days, tops. But something about this one…maybe he would hold onto his sneers and standards a little longer.

For reasons she didn’t know and couldn’t understand, she hoped he would. That he would suddenly snap to his senses and return to the obviously respectable life he’d had before. She knew better than to believe it was possible, of course. That he was here at all meant there was no way for him to go back. That was life, here. She knew it all too well. This was where the people who were covered in soot from the bridges they’d burned ended up.

It was growing dark, and the end of her shift drawing near, when the first trouble happened. A rowdy crowd rambled in, just as the sun was sliding under the horizon. Her relief was late, and she was mildly irritated by it. It was hardly _unusual_ , and normally she wouldn’t mind, but today she was just a little jumpy. She found her worries fully justified when the men, who already smelled of alcohol, spotted the Navy man and immediately started to jeer.

“Eyy, wazza fancy-ass limey doin’ in the _Bride_ , eh? Since when do yeh take shine offa pigs like that?” one of the newcomers said, or slurred. He seemed to be preparing to place a hand on the man’s shoulder, and she was there in an instant.

“Since they pay for drink, Mr. Rivera!” she snapped quickly. “You like to pay your tab, now?”

The man scowled at her and leaned heavily on the bar. “Yeh givin’ me lip, slanty bitch?”

She could see, out of the corner of her eye, the Navy man frown, and quickly shot him a look to keep quiet. He watched, but one hand had disappeared into his coat. She turned back to the aggressor.

“No,” she said sweetly. “But I give you drink, if you leave others alone.”

The man squinted at her, then said, “Free drinks?”

“One round,” she said, and pointed to a table farther into the room. “Two if you don’t break anything.”

It was too early in the evening to turn down free drinks, so the men obediently, if jeeringly, moved off in the direction she’d indicated. She quickly and expertly served them their drinks, and generously ignored the pinch on the bottom she’d got in the bargain. She retreated to the bar and consoled herself by imagining cleaving the pincher’s fingers off.

“You didn’t have to do that,” said the Navy man, as she returned. She gave him a quizzical look.

“Do what?”

“Intervene on my behalf,” he said, sounding irritated.

“You want six men kick you to death?” She grabbed a rag and scrubbed at the counter, mostly for something to do. “And it was not just for you. _I_ am supposed to be going home, now. I am not paid enough to deal with fight, now.”

“But you are paid enough to pay for a round of free drinks?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. She grinned.

“If I am not, will you pay for me?”

He scowled. “I didn’t _ask_ for your help.”

“No. So I will not make you pay. You do not have to worry about me, sir. You have your own troubles coming. Be happy you will not get kicked to death for,” she cast a glance at the men, “thirty more minutes.”

The man snorted, and looked back down at his drink, which was his fifth. The only noticeable change in his demeanor was a sort of fever-brightness in his eyes.

“Small blessings,” he muttered.

The _Faithful Bride_ was never closed, because, while the day trade was certainly less bustling than the night trade, to shut out even the potential for revenue was an unpardonable sin in the eyes of the owner. Next day, as she came in at breakfast time to relieve the night girls, she was surprised not to find the Navy man’s body among those she hauled out into the streets. She _did_ find the pincher, though, and indulged herself by kicking and rolling him across the floor to the door. Over several piles of miscellaneous human excretions and a broken bottle. She was half-surprised he hadn’t woken up, and would’ve assumed he was dead but for the almost deafening snores he emitted. He would have some lovely bruises to remember her by, just as she had one to remember him by.

It was nearly noon when the Navy man walked in, looking relatively unmolested. It was busier today than it had been yesterday, and she nodded to a shadowy corner that would be less immediately noticeable from the door. He caught her nod, hesitated, then took the seat. She brought him a drink and a surprised smile.

“You are not dead,” she said, in congratulations.

“I am not,” he agreed, dryly. “Contrary to your apparent beliefs, madam, I _can_ take care of myself.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you here?” she asked. He scowled.

“…Many reasons,” he said, grasping the rum as if it were his last anchor to this world. “But a Sparrow is chief among them.”

She paused, then chuckled heartily. “Jack Sparrow?”

The man looked surprised, then deeply miffed. “How did you know?”

“Oh, sir, there is only one Sparrow who causes so much pain,” she said, patting his hand in a commiserating way. He flinched. “Many have been made unhappy, chasing him. If he had a penny for all his enemies, he would be richer than all the kings of the world.”

This did not seem to make him feel any better, and he waved her away with a scowl. She left, with one mystery satisfied and a good deal of fellow feeling. She had heard of Jack Sparrow; who hadn’t? She’d served him drinks before, too, and had been tempted on numerous occasions to skewer his hands to the table. But he tipped well, on those rare occasions he had money, and had once defended her honor, in a way. He was, on his own, a cheeky, charismatic bastard, but chaos happened to follow him like a homing pigeon. There were far more people who came in drinking to his death, rather than to his health.

But on the whole, she was happy to keep him at arm’s length. Or better yet several arms’ length. She had quite enough chaos in her life as it was.

The Navy man became a regular, as she had feared and known he would. He was never very talkative, and while he lasted an entire week without looking too much worse for wear, one day he walked in with a black eye. Or rather, limped.

“They got you,” she said, half pityingly, half “I told you so”-ing. He scowled.

“It was a misunderstanding,” he said brusquely. “They were discussing Sparrow’s whereabouts. I only asked them for clarification, and then—”

She stared at him, then shook her head. “You still chase Sparrow? Is that why you come? In _uniform?_ ”

He stared right back, with a mixture of annoyance and sheepish defiance. “I have been told that, sooner or later, _everyone_ passes through Tortuga.”

She flapped her hands at him. “That is true. But why as an officer? You cannot spy if you light up the room like a second sun!”

“I am _not_ a spy!” he exclaimed, then grimaced and lowered his voice. “…Nor am I an officer. Not anymore.”

She glanced around the room. No one was in immediate need of her attention, and there weren’t very many people in at any rate. She took the seat opposite him, much to his surprise, and frankly, her own. “Tell me.”

“And why should I do that?”

She shrugged. “You have better thing to do?”

He stared, then frowned. “Possibly not, but do you not have a job to do, madam?”

She waved a dismissive hand. “I tend bar, most days. I hear things. Perhaps I can help you.”

“And why would you do that?”

She paused, folding her hands together on the table. In all honesty, she had no idea. Bad cases like him came and went daily, and she never paid them much attention, provided they paid up. It was hardly any of her concern, and it wasn’t like he’d ever _asked_ her for anything.

But…for whatever reason, she couldn’t leave him alone. Perhaps it was his rumpled shininess, or his quietly injured pride. Clearly, he had once been…well, exactly the opposite of what you found on Tortuga, that was for certain. In time, he’d be eaten alive by this place. Yes, perhaps that was it—it was like watching a house fire, where you knew the occupants couldn’t get out. It was terrible, and completely arresting. Almost hypnotic.

What she _said_ was, “I have nothing better to do.”

He snorted, and gazed into the depths of his drink, as though scrying.

“Until a fortnight ago,” he started slowly, “I was a commodore of the British Royal Navy, appointed to Port Royal. For the past two months, I had been chasing Jack Sparrow and the _Black Pearl_ across the world. Until Tripoli.” He paused, jaw tightening. “There was a hurricane. It…claimed most of my men, and all of my honor. I returned to Port Royal disgraced and turned in my resignation.” He stopped, and when he gave no sign of continuing, she raised an eyebrow.

“And came straight here?” she asked. He frowned.

“I thought of returning to England, but the ship I found passage on stopped here.”

“And…you thought, ‘last chance’?” she demanded. He looked at the boarded-up window.

“Perhaps. Perhaps I thought it fitting that I should die here, among the thieves and villains I’ve worked all my life to bring to justice. Fate seems to enjoy cruel irony, after all. There is nothing for me in England, or anywhere else.”

“No family? Truly no one?”

He grimaced. “I…have a sister. But she is married, and having a disgraced, unemployed brother intruding on her would only burden and shame her.”

She crossed her arms. “But you do not need to be _here_. You can sail. You can work. You can _escape!_ ”

He seemed surprised by her vehemence for a moment, then he gave a mirthless chuckle.

“This island, possibly. But not the past.”

Three days later, she found him crumpled in a far corner, with the remains of a broken table obscuring him. He was unconscious, and dried blood crusted one nostril. His hat lay crushed under his arm, and his wig was terribly askew. Pinching her lips together, she set about unearthing him and checking for other injuries. His nose didn’t seem to be broken, but she was willing to bet there’d be some bad bruising. With the half-healed black eye, she imagined he would look like a withered grape. Still, nothing else was stabbed or excessively out of place, so she scooped him up in her arms and carried him behind the bar.

It was an hour past dawn, which was the slowest hour of the day for business, most people having passed out by then. Checking to ensure nothing else required her immediate attention, she pulled a mostly clean handkerchief from her pocket and set about cleaning up the blood on his face. The wig had slid off and lay like a dead cat on the ground, revealing dark brown hair, once closely cropped to the head, but growing out now. It made him look younger than she’d initially thought, and with the blood cleaned off he looked almost sweet, even with the three-day growth on his chin. She bundled up her apron and tucked it under his head, did the best she could to restore his hat to its proper shape, and stared at the wig. She’d never quite grasped the point of them, even now, though she’d had years to acclimate to the sight. She kept her own hair long—she hadn’t cut it significantly since she’d arrived here—and while nobles in her home country often kept it in elaborate updos, she had no such luxuries. So she braided it and coiled it and pinned it to hell. You could possibly melt down all her hair pins to make a small dagger blade, if that was how you wanted to entertain yourself.

She found her fingers brushing over his forehead for no particular reason, and she immediately got to her feet. Back to work.

As she straightened furniture, swept and splashed water over the floor, and otherwise kept her hands busy, she wondered why she hadn’t just thrown the man out, like all the rest. That was what she _ought_ to have done. In fact she had half a mind to do it now; she’d shown him courtesy enough. She marched behind the bar, fully intent on picking him up and throwing him out, when he opened his eyes.

He squinted at her for a moment, then groaned, bringing a hand to his head. She stared at him in bemusement, hands on her hips.

“Still alive, then?” she said, crouching by his head. He cracked open an eye.

“So it would seem,” he croaked, and gingerly sat up. Then his eyes widened, and he started to look around for—

“Looking for this?” she asked, holding up the wig. He snatched it from her, and doing the best he could with his fingers, combed it into something resembling shape and placed it back on his head. It was crooked. Unthinkingly, she reached out and fixed it, pulling back sharply when he flinched. “Your head—”

“Hurts very much, yes,” he said. “Is there such a thing as clean water in this establishment, madam, or is rum as close as you get?”

She stared at him a while, then sighed. “Come.”

She led him into a small back room, which was everything from break room to closet to miniature kitchen to convenient space to have sex, which the smell attested to. She didn’t like it much, but it could be useful. For example, the shelves were so cluttered with random junk, it made it easy to stash things there. In this case, it was a chipped earthenware cup, a carefully preserved Japanese tea pot, and a small bag of green tea leaves. It wasn’t proper tea, in her opinion, but it was the best she could get—which meant it was only minimally adulterated with ash, wool, sand, and other shite that the traders thought they could get away with to bulk out volume. It was expensive, too, but it was her one pleasure in life.

She laid these out on the table, and, after going out to the well for some water, she lit the fire in the small fireplace, setting the battered and grubby pot over it to heat the water.

Navy man watched all this in bemused silence, a hand still held to his head. Why was she doing this? Her supply of tea was limited, and it was one of the few things she had retained from her upbringing, one of the precious few things she had to look forward to. Why waste it on a stranger?

“I never asked your name,” he said, with just a hint of shame. Ah. She continued to watch the water, but felt something else warming up.

“Florence. Please call me Flo,” she said, and finally turned around. He looked surprised, which did not surprise her.

“’Florence’? Is that…that is, forgive me if this is—” He actually stuttered a bit, and she smiled.

“Ah, well. That is my Western name. I live with Westerners now, so, my name is Flo,” she explained. “And before you ask: I am Japanese, and no, I will not tell you my Japanese name.”

He stared at her, then nodded. “As you wish. May I ask why?”

She shrugged. “I have not used it for many years. I cannot go home. It is painful to me. And,” here she gave a wry smile, “you would not say it right.”

He looked slightly miffed. “And how would you know that, madam?”

“Most cannot. And I have no desire to teach. Please, call me Flo. ‘Madam’ sounds so…old. Your name?”

He watched her for a moment, then answered, “James Norrington.”

She pinched her lips together. She’d been taught English many years ago, as a young teenager, and of course she had lived among mostly English speakers since, but some sounds still didn’t come quite naturally…

She bowed slightly. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. James.”

He raised an eyebrow at this, but also bowed slightly. “The pleasure is mine…Miss Florence.” 

She nodded approvingly. “Yes. ‘Miss’ sounds much better. Thank you.”

He very nearly smiled at this, she thought, but it was quickly turned into a wince, and he clutched at his head. She turned her attention back to making tea, and soon had a gently steaming cup in front of him. He stared at it.

“Is this…for me?” he asked, sounding genuinely confused. She nodded. “There was no need to trouble yourself…” he mumbled, but took the cup. “Er…thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Take it slowly.” She left him there a moment, then returned with a hard but edible piece of bread. “Not the best to go with tea…but you should eat.”

“I couldn’t accept—”

“Just eat,” she sighed, pressing the bread into his hand. “I must work. Rest here. If anyone come in…tell them I put you here.”

She left, then, before he could say another word.

He emerged from the back room around noon, looking much better than he had this morning, although that wasn’t hard. No one looks their best after being hit by a table. She nodded at him, and he nodded back, expression awkward and a little surly. He tried, as casually as he could, which wasn’t very, to take a seat at the bar in front of her as though he hadn’t just walked out of the backroom. None of the other patrons seemed to care much, though she caught one or two regulars grinning at her.

“Miss Florence,” he said, and her attention snapped back to him like a rope snapping its moor.

“Yes?”

“You said,” he lowered his voice, “that you might be able to provide me with…information?”

She looked at him shrewdly, then sighed. “You would still try? Look at where chasing him has brought you. There no shame in giving up. He has more enemies than he can count, one more will not make much different.”

“How can you be so sure?” he asked indignantly. She shrugged.

“I have been here many years. So has he. You are not the first to ask for information.”

“Miss Florence, are you willing to help me or not, that is all I want to know,” he said, voice tight. She sighed.

“I will help you.” _Even though I don’t understand why_ , she thought. “He was here less than two months ago, but only very quick. He came for supplies and repair. He had money, for once, but did not stay to spend it. Perhaps because he knew you would come. He said he was celebrating. A man who come three weeks ago said he saw the _Black Pearl_ near Cape Verde, but another said he saw it at one of the Greek islands. Others say Singapore. There are many rumors.”

Mr. James—she knew she wasn’t going to be able to say his last name right, and after she’d made a fuss about her own she didn’t dare try—scowled. “Or in other words, not much help at all.”

She shrugged. “Sometimes there is truth. He is a living legend. People like to tell stories. Any story sound almost true, if you say Jack Sparrow who did it.”

The scowl deepened, and she offered him a bottle. He looked at it, then looked away.

“I…can’t. Pay. Last night, my money was…” he mumbled, and she frowned.

“I told you, uniform would get you into trouble.”

“Yes, well.” And that seemed to be it. She sighed.

“How you expect to go on, then? What will you do?” she prompted.

“How _do_ you expect to go on,” he corrected, irritably. For a moment, she fell silent, chastened and annoyed. Then, she felt the roots of an idea spreading.

“You will need job,” she said. He raised an eyebrow at her.

“As what? A thief? A crooked merchant, selling stolen wares? Helping villains help themselves?” he said, bitterness dripping off every word. She rolled her eyes again.

“Yes. _Or_ …”

“…Or?”

She tapped a finger on the bar. “You speak nice English. _Rich_ English. If I could speak same way, I could…” She paused. She could what? Leave this island? Not immediately, not without some cash, and frankly an upper-class accent in Tortuga was more likely to get you assaulted rather than adulated. But an upper-class English accent coming from someone like _her_ …it would at least reduce the number of things people could hold against her. It would be a useful tool, almost a weapon, if you wielded it in the right situation. “…it would help me. You teach me, I keep you alive. Deal?”

He stared at her, brow furrowed. “So you would like me to teach you proper elocution, and in exchange you will provide me with the means to stay alive?”

She tilted her head. “’Elocution’, I do not know. But yes. I do not have much money. But I could give you drink, food.” She shrugged. “Not nice, but better than nothing. Yes?”

A moment went by, then he held his hand out. “Very well, Miss Florence. We have an accord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note that this is not going to be a faithful marriage of every plot point in My Fair Lady and Pirates of the Caribbean, i just lifted the "teaching someone to speak better English to elevate their status" thing. "fare" is intentional, although a little bit of a stretch. Flo is giving him his "fare" (as in food, in this case), and also this was a pun i came across in one of my favorite Discworld books


	2. Lessons and Libel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lads, ladies, and ladles, it is 2 AM and i probably should wait to post this until i've had a chance to reread it with fresh eyes in the morning, but i've got to get my adrenaline fixes from somewhere am i right
> 
> i did not realize until just now that it's been exactly one month since i posted the first chapter

The day after they’d struck their accord, he’d stumbled into the bar in the afternoon and sat heavily at a corner table, head muzzy, tongue thick, the world swimming. He’d come in less _for_ anything, more because he had nowhere else to go. Inside of thirty seconds, a bottle of rum and a glass was in front of him on the table, and someone had sat opposite.

“So. Where do we start?” said Miss Florence, with a small smile. He stared at her uncomprehendingly for a while, then a spark of memory flitted past his brain.

“You…were serious?” he said, one hand curling around the bottle without any conscious input. “You want me to teach you?”

She stared at him, the smile gone, then it flickered back on, maybe a little smaller. “Yes, of course I was serious. You were not?”

That stung his honor, and he grimaced. He wasn’t sure he’d had any left, so in a way that was a relief.

“I apologize. Of course, I gave my word.” He frowned, pouring himself a glass and pretending his hand wasn’t slightly trembling. Where _did_ they start? He’d never had to teach anyone English before, and certainly he’d never taught anyone an accent before. He’d never thought of himself as having one. He decided to buy a little time to think. “But, if I may ask, Miss Florence, you speak passable English already. What do you really have to gain?”

She raised an eyebrow at him, producing a small loaf of relatively fresh bread and a hunk of hard cheese, and laying it on the table in front of him.

“I do not want to stay here, Mr. James,” she said. He raised his own eyebrow at the name—it startled him just a little every time. “I…cannot go home, but thinking, dying here, in this pit, I—” She grimaced, which was as much emotion as he’d seen on her placid face thus far. “No, it is not my…what is the word? Choice?”

“Preference?”

“Yes, pref…rence. No one take women seriously here, not even white women, but a Japanese woman? Alone?” She shook her head. “It has been years of hard work, making my place. But I do not…prefrence it. If I could speak better, I could have chance. Of being more than foreign gutter trash.”

He stared at her for a long moment, thoughts so blurred that no individual words floated up, but feelings swirled by.

She returned the gaze, then pressed the bread and cheese into his hands.

“You have not eaten, yes? You will think better after. And _teach_ better,” she added, flashing a smile before getting up to attend to the other customers.

“…Prefer it,” he said automatically, after she was gone.

And so, the lessons had begun. She was a quick study, at least as far as vocabulary and grammar went. She eagerly snapped up new words and used them as often as she could, like a child given new toys. It occasionally led to some _interesting_ sentences that he hastily corrected, and she would laugh. It was one of the only times he heard her do so.

Pronunciation was a different matter. Though her accent wasn’t incomprehensibly thick, and according to her had much improved over the years, the remnant of it that was still there had survived so much conditioning he wasn’t sure he was entirely up to the task of scrubbing it out. The first, and to date _only_ time he’d had a genuine laugh since arriving in Tortuga was when he’d forced her to say his last name. He didn’t necessarily mind “Mr. James,” but if she wanted to be proper, then that had to go.

“Norrington. Go on. It’s hardly difficult, is it?” he goaded, and she’d stared at the table.

“N…Nol-No-ing…ton.”

He stared at her, and could swear there was a blush on her cheeks. “Come again?”

“…Nohrlington.”

And he’d laughed, properly too, because he was a bit drunk and had months of stress bursting to get out in any way it could, and she looked so very, very sheepish.

“Well, I can see where we shall have to start,” he’d said after he calmed down, surprised that a smile lingered. “But before we do…surely I deserve a chance to mangle your real name the same way?”

She looked up sharply then, and he could see that she most definitely _was_ blushing. It was an unusual contrast to her usual coolness.

“What use would that be?” she asked. “I will still ask you to call me Flo.”

“I will address you as ‘Flo’ as soon as you are able to pronounce my full name correctly, and when you have told me your real name,” he declared, setting down his glass a little unsteadily. She narrowed her eyes, then sighed.

“I will be ‘Miss Florence’ for a long time, then,” she’d said, crossing her arms.

“Miss Florence…wait a moment, what of _your own_ name?” he’d said in exasperation. She flicked a smile on and off, like opening a dark lantern and shutting it again.

“I can say it _now_ , but I am called ‘Flo’ for a reason,” she’d answered.

“Why on earth would you call yourself a name you can’t pronounce?”

She’d simply shrugged. “It was chosen for me.” And would say no more about it.

In fact, she rarely elaborated on anything about her past, and hardly more about her present. A month into their arrangement, and all he knew of her were a handful of facts, then broad assumptions and surmises gleaned through observation.

For example, he noticed that none of the regulars bothered him anymore, now that he spent so much time with Miss Florence. They’d been inclined to give him dirty looks and a righteous kick or two in the past, but not now. He had a fairly good idea of when it had started too.

There’d been a day, when he’d staggered in from the street around noon, filthy and exhausted after a blurred-out night. Miss Florence had simply given him a look, then jerked her head towards the back room. He had needed no extra prompting, and shuffled in. He was so dazed that he’d completely failed to notice a busily engaged couple in the corner and tried to make their discarded clothing a bed. After a roar of indignation had sobered him up faster than any amount of sleep or coffee could manage, he flew out the door and crashed into Miss Florence, who had steadied him and, when a very large, very angry, and very _naked_ man had charged out, smartly stepped in front of him. She listened politely to the man’s outrage, then simply said,

“Sir, please put your pants on, or get back to it and finish quickly, please. I am saving him for later.”

He had been unable to see her expression, but he saw the big man’s crumple into annoyance, puzzlement, then horribly lascivious amusement. He laughed, slapped her on the back in a congratulatory way, and disappeared back into the room.

“I am sorry,” she’d said, as she turned to him. “I did not know there was anyone there.”

He could only shrug. “What did you mean by ‘saving me for later’?”

He saw her eyes dart to the other customers and turned to see several heads turning away. He could still see the smirks they barely attempted to hide, though. “Oh,” he’d mumbled, feeling himself turning red. She’d only shrugged and told him to bunker down under the bar.

After that, most of the dirty looks had been replaced by knowing ones, and he wasn’t entirely sure which was worse. Not that anything ever actually _happened_ between them, and he could see it was a convenient excuse.

He sat at the bar now, loosely gripping his glass, his eyes following Miss Florence around the room. Not so much out of interest, but because she was practically the only thing in the place that moved. Everyone else in at this hour were miserable, sullen sods, just like him, and not inclined to much rowdiness.

“So, how is she then?” came a sudden, conspiratorial whisper from his elbow. Startled, he looked down to find a—for want of a better word—man, sidling into the seat next to him, and it _was_ a sidle. He had never seen a movement to which the word could be more aptly applied.

The newcomer was short, rough-looking (a description in Tortuga that would be utterly useless to any sort of police investigation, if any such thing existed), and had a leer that could make stone blush. If he thought about it, he could just about remember him hanging around in the dark corners of his memory. Another regular, then.

“I beg your pardon?” he said, rather coldly. He wasn’t a convivial drunk at the best of times, and he was still too sober in any case.

“You’re the bloke ol’ Flo’s taken a fancy to, eh? _How is she?_ ” the man persisted.

His metaphorical inner self’s mouth dropped open, but his physical self merely sneered.

“In what way, sir? As you can see for yourself, she is alive and healthy,” he said, hoping he’d go away.

“Are you daft, mate? I _mean_ in the sack! She’s bin here for _ages_ , and far as anyone knows, never let a man touch ‘er. And she’s had a fair few offers, if you know what I mean? Lotta people ‘round here looking for a little change of flavor, you might say?”

The sneer turned to utter disgust, now, although that had been inevitable.

“That is hardly any way to speak about a lady,” he said, fingers itching for a sword that was no longer there. Any other weaponry he’d armed himself with had been stolen long ago, and frankly he found it was more trouble than it was worth to try to keep one. Much better to scoop up whatever he could find on the floor whenever the fight started.

The man chortled. “Ooh, fancy you is, I can see why she chose yeh. But come on, mate, don’t keep a bloke in suspense, I bin wondering for _years_ what it might be like with a—”

“I would advise you to stop talking, _sir_ ,” he said, pouring out the rest of the rum in his bottle into the glass, so he would have it ready to smash over the man’s head. Possibly the extra weight provided by the rum would help, but he wasn’t about to waste any.

“Hey, no need to be shy, right? Just us blokes, you can tell ol’ Hozzy, you can,” the man continued, completely oblivious to the icy reception.

“One, this is a disgraceful way to talk about an honorable woman, and two, it is factually inaccurate. We do _not_ have that kind of relationship.”

The man’s brow furrowed, finally looking a little annoyed. Norrington tensed, one hand ready by the empty bottle.

“Wot, seriously? She’s _always_ talkin’ to you, AND she’s put it out that you’re her man an’ not to be bothered! You sayin’ that’s a lie?”

He coughed as rum made a decent attempt at drowning him.

“’ _Her man’?_ ” he repeated, spluttering. Sensing progress, ‘Hozzy’ grinned.

“That’s wot she says. You sayin’ you aren’t then?”

Norrington stared into the horrible man’s face as he tried to think his way around a blockade of alcohol. He was fundamentally honest, and the idea of everyone speculating about his sex life was just—intolerable, so a large part of him was tempted to shake the man and demand he spread the word that this was a big fat lie. He might have been able to handle it—had, in fact, _been_ handling it—had no one actively confronted him about it. But this? Was this going to become a regular thing?

On the _other_ hand, it was clear that this was the reason for the slight decrease in physical injury lately, and that was nice. He was surprised that Miss Florence’s protection could hold so much clout. She was just so…quiet. One would expect a woman like her to be eaten alive—

Hold on, but that was just it, wasn’t it? The very fact that she _appeared_ to be so vulnerable and yet had lived here for years proved that she was more than a simple bartender. He should have realized sooner, but, well…frankly, he was not much more than a pickled brain walking about at this point.

He closed his eyes. That wasn’t what he was supposed to be thinking about right now, he had a decision to make—oh yes…

“It isn’t…the full story,” he said slowly. Hozzy leaned forward eagerly, and a wave of stench rolled over him in an act of nasal assault. That it could overpower his own caked-in stench was truly impressive, and he leaned back to avoid it.

“Well, let’s have the story then!” the man said, then yelped a little as a bottle cracked down on the bar, a millimeter from his fingers.

“You are not being nuisance, are you, Hozzy?” Miss Florence said sweetly, prying the cork out of the bottle and tantalizingly tilting it towards the man.

“N-no, not at all, Miss Flo! Just extendin’ the ‘and of friendship, I was. Much obliged, luv!” he blurted, taking the bottle and departing at some speed. Norrington stared at the recently vacated seat, and then at her.

“Why was he so frightened of you?” he asked, a tinge of suspicion in his tone. She smiled.

“I am the bringer of booze,” she said, in a slightly melodramatic tone, even as she switched his empty bottle for a full one. “An important resource. They respect.”

“He was _frightened_ ,” he insisted. She gave him a shrewd look, then—

“I can do this,” came her voice, but it sounded far away in the face of the clanging of panic in his ears. There was a blade held half an inch away from his right eye, and only when it was put away did he start to breathe again.

“Hhh—I see,” he stuttered, willing his shoulders to relax. He cleared his throat. “So. I’m your man, am I?” He tried to pitch it casually but wasn’t sure he succeeded.

She actually grimaced, then. “I am—I’m sorry,” she corrected. Contractions had been one of the first things he’d instructed her on. “It…’s the easiest way.”

He nodded, somewhat mollified. He’d lived in a carefully cultivated image of gentlemanly honor up until circa two months ago, and somehow the idea of his being seen as a just a drunkard was better than being seen as a—an—an amorous one. Amorousness had been stamped down and leashed and delicately put away, and that was one thing he had no intention of changing. But, perhaps, he could tolerate the lie if it meant one less black eye per week.

He sighed. He couldn’t even vaguely consider the idea of women without thinking of—

_“So this is where your heart truly lies, then?”_

_“It is.”_

He let the sticky burn of rum reroute his thoughts.

“Where did you learn to wield a knife like that?” he asked, setting down a decently depleted glass. She glanced at it.

“Many years ago,” she said, as she often did. He snorted in irritation.

“Is there anything you have learned _recently_ , Miss Florence?” he drawled. Why did she always have to be so vague?

“Of course, Mr. Norrington,” she said, and he sat up in surprise.

“You…oh. Well done,” he said, a little nonplussed. She smiled.

“Anything new to teach me today, then?” she asked. He paused, a niggling thought worming its way up to the surface.

“Perhaps you have something to teach _me_ , today, Miss Florence…?”

“Such as?”

His lip twitched upward at the innocence in her voice. “Your name, perhaps?”

She smiled indulgently at him and shook her head, while also laying half a sausage and a decently soft loaf of bread in front of him.

“Not today.”

He frowned. “Then when?”

She seemed to consider it for a while.

“When things are better for us both, Mr. James Norrington.”

Some weeks later, James Norrington was not yet dead. Or, at least, his heart was still beating. He was in a bad way, and he knew it. And it was only going to get worse, however much he tried not to think about it. At first, he’d held the faintest glimmer of hope, for—for what? Restoration? Redemption? Revenge? Certainly something starting with ‘r’, at any rate, and it was a letter much on his mind after many frustrating lessons with Miss Florence, who insisted that there was no such sound in her native language. She had mastered saying his name, so he’d assumed that would be the end of that particular problem, but alas.

He’d quickly found that words she used every day were more or less passable, but then she would say something that sounded very much like ‘level’ when she meant ‘rebel’. It sometimes led to mild confusion when she was reporting her findings on Sparrow’s whereabouts to him. Findings that usually turned out to be about as useful as a paper sword.

After two months of nothing but preposterous rumors and hearsay, a black depression was descending on him like a mid-winter storm that intends to last until spring. He was irritable and restless, sometimes welcoming the bawdy brawls he got embroiled in on the regular—just for something to do. And something to hit.

A small corner of him that was still a respectable commodore knew that it was undignified behavior. If his self of yesteryear could see him now, he’d be utterly disgusted with himself. That wasn’t to say his current self wasn’t utterly disgusted, but there was little to be done about it.

An alarming majority of his time was spent in the _Faithful Bride_ now, because it had a steady supply of both inebriation and information. He’d wandered the docks before, now and again, had explored the streets to get a sense of his surroundings, but now he sat in the tavern, like a snail in its shell, stewing or, if his temper was up, steaming.

He was not always conscious, but if he passed out or was knocked out while in there, chances were good he’d wake up in the back room, with a cup of Miss Florence’s strange green tea waiting for him. Or he’d be out with the pigs, if the other patrons had decided to take it upon themselves to clean up their own mess. Those were bad days, and it was with alarmingly increasing frequency that he found himself resigned to staying with the swine when it happened. What was the point in getting up? There was nothing waiting for him, no job, no home, nothing. At least the pigs didn’t try to kick his teeth out. Not on purpose.

On the better days when he woke up in the back room, he would drink the tea, eat whatever morsel—sometimes an entire small meal—had been left for him with it, and either sulk for a few hours before emerging, or be chased out by…well…couples, was the only way he was going to describe it. Usually one of the other girls who tended the bar with a swarthy stranger. Probably it was a bit of income on the side. Although the idea disgusted him, he couldn’t really say he grudged them for it. Money was money, especially in a grimy and ruthless place like Tortuga. A bit of shine went far here.

Insofar as he knew, Miss Florence never supplemented her no doubt meager wages with…that sort of thing. She always seemed to be behind the bar, although she presumably had a home she went to at night. Not every night, though, because sometimes he would swear she didn’t step outside the _Bride_ for days on end, something he only knew because _he_ was there, too. He had to be costing her a lot of money in drinks—a lot in food and tea, too, if it came to that. But she never said a word, beyond prompting him for lessons.

“’Reading and writing are richly rewarding’, go on, try again,” he said, sipping from his glass. She stared at him flatly.

“This is torture. You are torturing me,” she said, and one corner of his lips curled up a little.

“Consider it a trial by fire, Miss Florence.”

She sighed. “Reading and writing are…li…lich…richerly…”

“ _Richly_.”

She grit her teeth for a moment before carefully saying, “…Richry.” He looked at her.

“Why is it you have no issue with ‘reading’ or ‘writing’ but cannot manage ‘richly’?” he asked, for once not with exasperation. She shrugged.

“Reading and writing, I learned. I was taught. But no one here is…lich.”

“I should hope not,” he said dryly. She tilted her head questioningly and he sighed. “A lich is a corpse, Miss Florence.” Her eyes lit up in understanding, and she nodded once. He had to admit moments like that were satisfying. He’d never had much interest in teaching before, but he could see a certain appeal to it now. Of course, it came with its aggravations. “Are you telling me you have not had cause to use the word ‘richly’ and therefore cannot say it?”

“Not yet,” she said, firm with determination. “You must let me practice.”

He had to concede that. “I suggest you get to it, then.”

She took a breath. “Reading and writing are…rich…ree. Leewarding.”

He snorted softly. “Not quite.”

After a few more attempts, he sat back, raising an eyebrow at her. “How long did it take you to learn to say your own name, Miss Florence?”

She shrugged. “Long time. I—” He held up a finger, and she paused, then started again with, “A long time. A few years, maybe. I do not…I don’t need to say my name very much. If I have to use a word every day, it is easier.”

His thoughts flitted, unbidden, into a thoroughly unpleasant lane of speculation. “…And how long did it take you to say ‘sparrow’?”

She grinned at him. “A few weeks.”

He snorted again, this time in disgust, taking another sip. He barely noticed the burn of alcohol anymore. It was a little frightening how quickly he had numbed to it.

“How did you get involved with him?” she asked, after a few moments. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, refusing to face her.

“Jack Sparrow, do you mean?” he asked, more to put off the inevitable than because he was confused. She nodded, and he sighed.

“Sparrow’s intrusion into my life unfortunately coincided with the commemoration of my promotion to commodore. At the ceremony, a…guest became ill and fell from the fort into the ocean. My men and I ran to save them, and arrived in time to see Sparrow pulling them from the water.” While he talked, he stared at the ceiling, tuning in on its dusty, grimy grain and tuning out Elizabeth’s face, and come to that, Sparrow’s. “We arrested him, of course, and put him in a cell.”

“Why? Did he not help?” she asked, and the question startled him. He wrinkled his nose.

“Because he is a pirate.”

“…I see.” The silence before her reply somehow sounded judgmental, and he scowled. Not her too.

“He would have been hanged in the morning, but that night we came under attack. Captain Barbossa of the _Black Pearl—_ ”

“It was _you!_ ” she cried suddenly, attracting the glances of several customers. He himself had reared back, unused to anything but measured responses from her. She looked around and ducked her head, clearing her throat.

“I apologize,” she said, in her usual tones. She’d picked up the phrase from him. He could tell by how exactly her inflection imitated his. It was a little eerie, if he thought about it too long. “I just…some months ago, I heard stories of Captain Barbossa’s…passing.”

He stared at her. Something about her tone, her choice of wording, caught at him like a thorn in the hem of a coat, but the rum was making it hard to piece together exactly why.

“You knew him,” he said, half-accusing, half hopeful that he was utterly wrong. She met his gaze briefly, then looked away with a shrug. Her hands disappeared under the table, but he could see the muscles in her forearms tensing, as if she were clenching her fists.

“I know all of the pirate lords,” she said matter-of-factly, but there was a faint veneer of affectation to it. “Every pirate comes to the _Bride_ , sooner or later.”

_Pirate lords?_ he wondered, but resolved to pursue it later. This was far too intriguing.

“That may be, but you seem to have known him…well.” _Intimately_ had been the first word to come to mind, but he had shooed it off as one shoos a wasp and hoped it wouldn’t come back. She seemed to pick up on it and chuckled.

“We have talked,” she said, with an air of finality, like the one she used to shut down other inquiries into her past, but he wasn’t going to let this one go so easily.

“How often?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Only twice, and that was many years ago, Mr. James.”

For a moment, he was tempted to correct his name—after all, hadn’t she practiced for a reason?—but recognized it as a distraction. He set his glass down, crossing his arms.

“What do you know of his death?” he asked, noting the brief flash of chagrin across her features. She shrugged.

“I heard that Jack Sparrow led a Navy fleet to Isla de Muerta and that Barbossa and his crew were all killed,” she said. He considered.

“That is…nearly accurate,” he said. “Most of his crew we arrested and took back with us to Fort Charles, to await trial and punishment.” He paused, watching for her reaction.

“…And Barbossa?” she asked at last.

“He was shot by Sparrow, according to him,” he said. “We did not retrieve the corpse.”

“Then he may not be dead,” she said, a little more sharply than one might expect. Then she hesitated. “Do you know of the curse?”

He sighed. “Yes. Though I must say I would not have believed it, if I hadn’t seen it for myself. The curse was broken in the middle of our fight with his crew. If it had not been, I’m certain I would not be here now.” He sighed again. “Which may have been the preferable option.”

“Do not say that,” she said, and he looked at her in surprise at her vehemence. She seemed to notice it and smiled. “Who would torture me with…richly…rewarding…reading and writing?”

He did a doubletake, everything they’d been discussing being suddenly swept away by alcohol and pleasant surprise. “Oh. Well done.” He broke into a smile, which surprised him even more. “Excellent!”

Her smile was tinged with pride and wider than he’d ever seen it, revealing a chipped upper tooth he’d never noticed before.

“’Reading and writing are richly rewarding,’” she declared, for good measure, extending the life span of his smile by a few more seconds.

“Very good. Try it a little faster now…”

It wasn’t until much later that evening, when he was alone, that he realized that he had, yet again, failed to get a straight answer out of Miss Florence about her past. He couldn’t quite remember what they’d talked about; something about his involvement with Sparrow, hadn’t it been? He’d had too much to drink; his thoughts were like paint dripping down a wall. She’d known someone. Ah, yes. Barbossa was mostly rumor and myth to him; they’d never met face-to-face and quite frankly, for many years he’d assumed he was more a bogeyman than an actual threat. It was hard to conceive of such a ghostly (literally, now, he supposed) figure interacting with someone as solid and real as Miss Florence.

Words deserted him at this point, melting into images, which dissolved into the darkness of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i'm doing this to myself but trying to toe the line between 'acceptably broken english to explain why she'd want lessons' and 'outrageously cringy' for Flo's accent is like taking a gentle cheese grater to my soul every time. it's based kind of on my mom's grammatical errors and the pronunciation issues japanese people have had when i teach english but i still worry that i'm overdoing it ///


	3. Fruitful Discussions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was almost done a month ago and just needed a couple scenes to flesh it out...or so I thought. Suddenly it was longer than both the previous chapters combined. So, if it seems like it ends a bit abruptly, it's because I chopped it in half. Next chapter will probably be a bit longer than usual.

James woke up with a pounding headache and mouth dry as a desert. He debated opening his eyes. He knew there would be nothing good to see and wanted to delay the inevitable. The pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears masked the sound of soft footsteps, so he was taken completely by surprise when someone suddenly scooped him up.

With a hoarse yell, he forced open his eyes and lashed out with his hands, connecting with something that felt like flesh. Whoever had grabbed him grunted and dropped him, and he scrambled to his hands and knees, eyes wild.

“Good morning,” Miss Florence said ruefully, a hand held to her cheek. He tried to calm down and make sense of what he was seeing.

“Oh,” he eventually mumbled, sitting up slowly and wincing as his head twanged. “Miss Florence…” He then realized, to his mortification, that he had effectively assaulted her. “I—oh. My sincerest apologies, I didn’t realize—”

She sat back on her haunches, smiling dryly. “I have faced worse,” she said. “At least you did not have a knife.” She drew her hand away, revealing a smear of blood. “But it seems you did have some glass.”

His horror deepened, and he glanced around to see shards littered on the ground around them. He vaguely remembered waking last night to find someone’s hand in his coat, though he had nothing left to steal. He’d lashed out on instinct then, too, and then…it was a blur of adrenaline and pain.

“Are you alright?” he asked, knowing it was a phenomenally stupid thing to say. She fingered the wound gently and shrugged.

“It is shallow,” she said, then winced. That broke him out of his frozen shock, and he quickly scooted to her side, pulling her hand away and inspecting the cut, the need for action temporarily erasing his hangover. There seemed to be a small piece of glass stuck there.

“Hold still,” he murmured, one hand grasping her chin to keep her still, the other carefully pinching the shard between thumb and forefinger. One would imagine this to be impossible for a hungover man minutes after waking in bad lighting, but it was done mostly on instinct. Years of sailing and sea battles meant he was used to the aftermath of messy injuries; plucking out metal shrapnel, wood splinters, and other foreign objects had long ago become second nature, even in less-than-ideal circumstances. In moments, the offending shard was in his palm.

“You’re right, it seems to be a shallow cut,” he said, taking another look and surprising himself with how coherent he sounded. “Do you have any clean cloth?”

“You do not have to—”

“Please, Miss Florence,” he said. “I caused you this injury.” He swallowed. Saying it out loud cemented the fact and riled guilt from his guts. “It is a poor way to repay you for the kindnesses you have shown me. At least let me try to make amends.”

She gave him a shrewd sideways look, then got to her feet, offering him a hand, which he took with some hesitation.

“You speak better when you are scared,” she observed with an amused look. He grimaced.

“I would hardly say I am _scared_. Flustered, perhaps,” he suggested stiffly, following her as she walked towards the bar. She cast a glance over her shoulder at him.

“What is ‘flustered’?”

He frowned, trying to figure out how best to explain. “It is…a state of agitated excitement and confusion.”

She thought about it while rummaging under the bar for something. “Like a drunk man woken up by a stranger,” she said eventually, with a wry grin.

“Precisely,” he said, shifting uncomfortably. “I truly am sorry—”

She waved him off. “I should have been careful. You have never woken up when I carry you before.”

“Yes, well, I apolo—you…” He trailed off as her words actually sunk into his brain. “You have carried me before?”

She nodded, pulling out a small, somewhat ragged, but relatively clean square of cloth, as well as a bottle. “Of course. How do you think you end up in there?” she asked, jerking a thumb at the door that led to the back room. He stared at her. He’d never considered it. Some part of him was distantly aware that _someone_ must have caused him to be there rather than on the floor of the bar, but he’d somehow never once thought that it was _her_. Despite the fact that there was no one else who would. He couldn’t help but glance at her sleeves, which revealed nothing of her musculature whatsoever.

“Oh,” was all he managed, and he quickly took up the cloth and the bottle to cover his embarrassment. The bottle contained—by the smell of it—alcohol, and strong at that. He dabbed a bit onto the cloth. “This will sting a bit,” he warned, bringing the cloth up to her face. She sighed.

“Yes, I know,” she said, and closed her eyes. Carefully, he dabbed away the blood, noting that her only reaction was a slight tightening around the eyes. He wondered how often she might have had to endure this sort of thing. He’d spent so much of his life at sea, where injuries of all types were common, to the point where he was largely desensitized to it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d reacted this way to a mere cut, even if he had been the cause of it. Somehow, the idea of Miss Florence being hurt was much more distressing.

He frowned, shaking off the anxiety. Why should it be distressing? This was a superficial wound, and she was a grown woman strong enough to carry grown men bigger than herself, apparently, and he had apologized, and she had accepted it. Nothing, then, to dwell on. The incident had just caught him off guard.

_You need her. You’re scared to lose her help_ , whispered a much more savvy and selfish part of him. He scowled, pulling back the cloth.

“Are you alright?” he asked, realizing he was repeating himself but unable to think of anything else to say. She opened her eyes and smiled.

“Yes. Thank you.” She took the cloth from him, folding it up and stowing it under the bar, presumably for later disposal. “Are you? Another fight?”

“I don’t…quite recall, but yes, I am fine. Just thirsty,” he said. Now that the urgency of the moment was gone, his various discomforts filed back in to lodge their complaints, even more loudly than before. She led him into the back room for the usual tea.

As he sat and blew on his steaming cup some minutes later, he asked something that had been on his mind for some time now.

“Where do you get this tea, Miss Florence?”

She fixed him with a look for a long moment, for once having sat down with him instead of going back to the bar right away.

“I have…accords made,” she said ambiguously. He rolled his eyes.

“And the nature of these accords are…?”

She shrugged. “Anyone who has tea to sell come to me first.”

“By ‘anyone’, you mean pirates, I suppose,” he said. He couldn’t stop a trace of bitterness in his tone. Miss Florence was silent for a longer moment than usual before answering.

“If food and drink from piracy bother you so much, Mr. James, I say you should leave immediately,” she said, an edge to her words. He looked up in surprise. “There is nothing acceptable for you here.”

Chagrin, surprise, annoyance, and the effects of being hungover swirled words in his head before dropping them into a pit of sudden anger in his stomach.

“There is nothing here that should be acceptable to _anyone_ , Miss Florence,” he snapped. “Do you expect me to condone having anything to do with stolen goods? Honest men were threatened and at worst _murdered_ for the selfish gain of dishonest and morally reprehensible men to indulge in every heartless vice their black hearts desire. Should I accept those actions? Celebrate them?”

“No,” she said, eyes narrowing. “I did not tell you that. You _chose_ to come here, Mr. James, and you choose to stay. You must accept the facts of the matter. I buy from pirates because no one else has what I want. The shop I used to buy tea from is thousands of miles away. Should I give up something that brings me happiness from home to avoid what is impossible to avoid here?”

He felt a pang of guilt there. Homesickness was something he’d long since gotten over, but he could remember the miserable humid nights he’d spent in the crowded hold of a ship, wishing for the temperate air of England. He would have done nearly anything for a taste of home. But his irritation, once roused, was hard to put away.

“I can hardly grudge you that, but do not expect me to revel in partaking of illegitimate goods,” he said icily. Her brow furrowed, and for a moment he thought she was truly angry.

“’Partaking’ and ‘illeg…intimate’…what is that?” she asked, sounding thoroughly annoyed to be asking. It took him a moment to follow the sudden shift in topic, then snorted gently at her mispronunciation, not out of malice but out of surprise and the sudden diffusion of tension.

“That would be ‘indulging in’, or in this case eating and drinking, and ‘not legal’,” he said, after a moment of flicking through a few different synonym options and choosing what he hoped were the simplest. She nodded, and he felt his annoyance further dissipating. “I did not intend to imply that you are wrong for finding something that brings you happiness, or to say that I was ungrateful. But surely you agree that piracy is a terrible thing,” he said, much more gently. When she next spoke, the edge had gone from her tone.

“Of course it is terrible to steal and kill,” she said softly. “But I could not live if I refused to have anything to do with pirates at all.” She paused, hands clasped on the table. “And…pirates are not the only ones who steal and kill.”

He looked at her sharply. “The Royal Navy does not _steal_ ,” he said, trying not to sound too defensive and failing.

“Really? I hear many stories. Boys who were stolen from the streets. Men stolen from their wives and children. Hiding from the Navy, because the Navy always needs more hands, and they will steal them.” Her gaze was unwavering and extremely discomforting, and he shifted in his seat, the tea rapidly cooling. It was true. Though he himself had volunteered, he knew that many press gangs roamed the streets in London, sometimes breaking into buildings and kidnapping able-bodied men, because the death toll was so high on the open seas. She took advantage of his silence to continue, “And wages. They steal wages, too, do they not? How many months were you owed when you left?”

“I—” he blurted, more out of surprise that she would guess such a thing than because he had any argument to make. He’d been owed six months’ worth of pay when he’d handed in his resignation and knew that getting them would take far too much hassle, so he’d abandoned it. He had thought he’d saved up enough previously, and Governor Swann had quietly slipped him a generous parting gift, most of which had been used to buy passage back to England. “That isn’t the same as stealing. Exactly,” he muttered.

“All that changes are the colors they fly, Mr. James,” she said, and slipped back to the bar before he could reply.

Mr. James worried Flo.

On the one hand, he had been in Tortuga for nearly three months now, and still insisted on drinking out of a glass. She had to admire the stubbornness and couldn’t help but wonder why it wasn’t being employed on a larger scale. Couldn’t he direct some of that bloody-mindedness to picking himself up and carting himself out of this dump? Some days, he claimed to want to; when the drink drove him to frenzy, she heard him loudly complaining and proclaiming that he would regain his honor. Considering how much he seemed to hate pirates just in principle, she wondered why he didn’t put more effort into that.

Usually his proclamations got some laughs, or a few projectiles. Probably beatings too, but so far she had not been on night shift to see it happen. He was never so fervid during the day; if he bothered to meet her gaze, he was in a good mood.

She watched with a sort of helpless resignation, as each day his fine uniform got grubbier and grubbier, caked in mud and blood and she didn’t want to know what else. His wig could not legally be called white anymore, and many stray wisps made him look like the victim of a lightning strike. His hat was growing bald patches and, she would swear, mold.

Yet he insisted on wearing it, even—especially—the damn wig. Several times, she considered bringing in a bucket of water and splashing him with it when he came in, but since she suspected it wouldn’t do anything other than aggravate him, she’d held off. She knew she wasn’t much better—a bath was a rare luxury in Tortuga, and she did the best she could with dips in the sea or with a bucket of cold water and a sponge—but at least _she_ did laundry. She had the feeling he wouldn’t particularly appreciate it if she brought it up, either, so she stayed silent.

After all, how much right did she really have to intervene, more than she already was? If she went around feeling sorry for every down-on-his-luck sailor in Tortuga…well, she’d have to adopt the entire population of the town, probably.

_You’re allowed one_ , she told herself. Mr. James was her one, and it wasn’t all just give. She’d already learned a lot. She was quite pleased with the progress she’d made so far, and despite his often sullen sarcasm, he was decent company. He was quite articulate, even when drunk. He was merciless in calling out her dropped “of”s and “a”s, now that he had embraced his role as teacher. She suspected it was partly due to the comfort of being able to boss someone around.

The first few lessons, Mr. James had seemed irritated whenever she prompted him. He often stared into his glass, as though he could drown himself just by looking. There was a hollow brightness in his blue-grey eyes that made him look feverish sometimes, and that was when he was the most snappish. Therefore, she made a point of offering him food when she asked for lessons, and it wasn’t too long before her sitting across from him could take away the darkness in him, just for the moment. Now and again, he even looked very slightly eager, if sitting up and looking her in eye could be considered ‘eager’. She couldn’t help but think of him like a stray dog she was taming with food. Sometimes his wisps of his wig would stick out after particularly bad nights and give the illusion of shaggy, hanging ears, which didn’t help.

What she found most difficult was imitating his polished accent with words that were already well-ingrained in her. Retraining years of saying ‘collar’ and ‘color’ almost interchangeably was taking her longer than she liked, especially in that particular case, since she barely had the ear to distinguish them.

“No, no, try it again. ‘The _color_ of your _collar_.’”

“The color of your…collor.”

He grimaced, and she frowned. “The _collor_ of your cuhlor?”

He shook his head. “The emphasis is different for each. The _cuh_ lor of your _koh_ lar.” 

“…The color…of your…col…lar.”

He looked up sharply, looking unusually intense. “Again.”

“The color…of your collar.”

A hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “Once more.”

“The color of your collar.”

He actually grinned then, cheeks flushed with success as well as drink. “Well done. Once more to be certain?”

His smile was infectious. It was so rare, but when it was genuine, and not the sardonic concession it usually was, it was as warm as sunlight.

“The color of your collar,” she declared, hitting the table lightly with her hand. He raised his glass to her.

“Very good.” It was gruff, and the smile was gone, but hers was not.

Days like that were good ones. On the bad ones, no amount of subtle food-based bribery could chase the maudlin from him.

One afternoon, when he was particularly melancholic and had sniped all the way through their lesson, she brought him the rare treat of fruit, a banana and a papaya. Both grew on the island and yet were hard for her to obtain, since demand for fresh fruit was so high among sailors that most of it was sold off almost immediately.

“Here,” she said, placing them on the table in front of him. He slowly looked from the fruit, then gradually to her face, eyes bloodshot. He frowned.

“H-haven’t we…already done the lesson for today?” he asked, his mouth apparently having trouble forming the words. She nodded.

“It is—it’s a tip,” she said, smiling brightly. He continued to stare uncomprehendingly at the fruit, and with a sigh, she sat across from him and took the papaya. With a flick of her sleeve, she produced her knife and deftly cut it in half, unceremoniously scraping the seeds out onto her palm before handing him back two neat halves, as well as her knife. He took them and began to eat, unfazed by only having a knife for utensil. She supposed that was something he picked up sailing. She started eating the seeds, enjoying the sliminess and the soft crunch. He paused, staring at her for a long moment.

“I didn’t realize the seeds were edible,” he finally said, after a questioning glance from her. She shrugged.

“Not eating them is a waste,” she said. “And I like them.” She let silence take over for a while, and waited until one half had been consumed before asking, “So what is wrong today, Mr. James?”

He gave her a flat look that was hard to read. “Miss Florence, I thought you could pronounce my name now.” He said it challengingly, and she frowned.

“Yes, but I like Mr. James. Mr. Norrington is…so…” she fished for the word and landed, “hard.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that not the point of practicing?”

She shook her head. “No, not hard for saying, hard like…distant. Cold? Do you know?”

He blinked, and blinked again. Her frown deepened.

“…I will stop if you prefer.”

Another moment went by, then he mumbled, “…No, it’s quite…alright.” Then he rallied, and his voice grew a bit louder. “Call me whatever you wish.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Mr. James.”

He grunted and started on the banana. She tried again when he finished.

“Do you feel better?”

He took a moment to consider. “Perhaps,” he conceded, hand curling around his glass again. She glanced at it, and at his haggard face.

“How old are you, Mr. James?”

He looked surprised at the question. “Twenty-seven. Why?”

“Why do you not leave this place?” she asked. “You are smart. Skilled. And still young. You could start again. You hate it here. This place will kill you, and you will die miserable and alone.”

“Thank you for your optimistic prediction,” he said dryly. Then, a little more seriously, “I cannot simply leave and start again.”

“ _Why?_ ” she demanded. It bothered her more and more, every time she noticed a new stain on his clothes, or a bruise, or had to pick him out of the rubble of the night. He had _potential_ , he had _options_. If he simply changed his clothes, he could have his pick of vessel to sail out on, if he could hold down his disdain of pirates for a little while. Just to get somewhere else, if he wanted an honest life. He was a respectable man, under all that grime, why wasn’t he _using_ it?

He stared at her, his lips moving silently a few times as he tried and failed to put a reply together.

“I…can’t,” he croaked at length.

“Because of Sparrow?” she asked, a little more sharply than she meant to. He scowled.

“In part,” he said stiffly.

“What else, then?”

He glared at the table, hand shaking just a bit around the glass. “I have lost everything I worked to build my entire life, Miss Florence. Scant months ago I had a respectable future ahead of me. Now I am as you see before you. What is the point?”

“You could try again. Build again.”

He laughed, bitterly. “And just where would I go to do such a thing? I hardly think there is anything here for me to build upon.”

“ _Anywhere._ You could go anywhere, if you would only try,” she said, vast blue skies and an ever-unrolling field of ocean spreading itself in her mind in a familiar panorama, full of the winds of hope and possibility.

“And what of yourself?” he snapped. “If you are so keen on leaving this place and ‘building again’, as you put it, why are _you_ still here?”

The question snapped her vision of hope over its metaphorical knee, causing it to disintegrate into the fluff and nonsense that it always did. It stung. As she fought to reassemble words, she thought she saw a flicker of remorse on his features, before they resumed their scowl.

“Where would _I_ go,” she said quietly. “You have a country to return to, if you wish. Colonies to explore, if you wish. _I_ am a novelty at best, a slave at worst.”

He looked chastised for a moment, then said, “Surely people would see that you are a perfectly intelligent woman and not—”

“Not _what_?” she interrupted sharply, having heard enough of this kind of thing to know what was coming. “A lost little girl? A strange foreign creature? An amusing doll?”

He stared at her with wide eyes and something like panic in them. She sighed through her nose and retrieved her knife, half-eaten banana abandoned on the table.

“No one wants a woman on their ship, anyway,” she murmured, as an afterthought, and left him there. She was nearing the end of her shift, and she needed to make sure the money was in order for the next girl. This mostly involved going into the back and counting the money in the till, noting down its division into expenses and profits. She was good with numbers and money, which was a large part of why she had a job at all. Phillip, the owner, had long since come to trust her with almost all of the finances, since her sums were much more accurate than his, and for the most part only came by to pick up his profits once a week. Since she was in control of the accounts, it was easy for her to set aside a monthly emergency ‘free drinks’ budget. What she didn’t use in the month, she kept to use for next month, because you never knew.

Mr. James had been eating into that little stash recently, and at this rate she would need to sit down and work out how to accommodate it without dipping into the profits enough for Phillip to notice. In some ways this was easier than it sounded, because he generally accepted her word. She did feel a little guilty taking advantage of this, but the emergency drinks fund had stopped a fair few fights breaking out over the years, and that lack of property damage justified its existence, in her opinion. It had saved her life a time or two as well. Besides, she was not paid nearly enough and this was a way to make things easier for herself without lining her own pockets outright.

When she had finished her sums, she was just in time to see Mr. James stumble out the door. For a moment, she felt an unfamiliar pang in her chest at the sight and sighed. She was investing far too much into this man, who was sullen and condescending and killing himself slowly. It would probably come back to bite her at some point. It usually did. She took up her place at the bar, waiting for the night girls to come in.

“Afternoon, Flo,” said a familiar voice. She snapped her gaze to the man who had sidled up in front of her and smiled.

“Good afternoon, Captain Wiggs,” she said, swiftly drawing out a bottle. “I hope you did not wait long for me.”

“Aye, _very_ long,” he drawled, a hand over his heart. Then he dropped the act, accepting the bottle with a cheerful nod. “Thanks, lass.” He took a long swig, then began rummaging inside his coat for something. “Got you some stuff I think you’ll like.” He produced three small tins and placed them on the bar. “Found ‘em in the officer’s cabin of some East India ship.”

She opened the tins and gave them a sniff, eyes lighting up as she recognized the smell of green tea. Though it did smell slightly old, a quick poke at the contents and another sniff showed that they had virtually no ash or sand mixed in to bulk out the volume. Possibly it had even come straight from a shop in Edo, a luxury the luckless officer had intended for himself…

“Thank you,” she said earnestly, grasping his hand. He grinned.

“Got something else, too,” he said, and pulled out a decorative red lacquered comb, with a painting of a pheasant. She kept her face neutral as she held it, admiring the detail. It was possible he didn’t know the full value of such an item, and while she had been doing business with Wiggs for many years on good terms, he probably wasn’t above raising the price if he thought she would pay it.

“How much?” she asked. He waved a hand.

“Give me the usual for the tea and a few rounds for me and my lads tonight, and it’s yours,” he said generously. She grinned.

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Flo being good with math and drinking green tea are stereotypes, but in my defense, the former is a bit of wish fulfillment on my part because I am an Asian who's bad at math, and the latter is something I put in because my grandma taught me tea ceremony. Also because of the chapters on tea in 'A History of the World in 6 Glasses' by Tom Standage, one of the first nonfiction history books that ever managed to keep my attention. It's still "world history" as seen through a mostly Western lens, but it has some good basic info, and I like that it isn't centered around wars. I'd recommend it!


	4. Home Is Where The Hearth Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i was going to stick to monthly updates, but guess what it's my birthday and i want to see numbers go up lol

The next day was a rare day off for Flo. She’d covered a night shift for Arabella last week and the girl was returning the favor. She took advantage of the weather to do laundry and air out her bedding, as well as thoroughly sweeping out the tiny shack she’d built for herself in the woods some ways from the town. It was surrounded by trees, well-hidden, and she’d managed to dig herself a well to boot. She didn’t get to spend much time there, but she managed to think of it as home. Or at least, home base.

As all her clothes were hanging to dry, she was wearing a makeshift bathrobe she’d cobbled together out of rough cotton, based on her memories of yukata. Sewing was not her strong suit and the stitches were uneven, but they held, and it covered her from neck to knee, which was good enough for her, alone in the woods.

She’d just finished sweeping out the last of the dirt and ash when it occurred to her that this would be the first day since their agreement that she wouldn’t be seeing Mr. James. She shook her head. Perhaps she was getting in too deep, if she found herself wondering how he was getting on when she was away from work. He was a grown man; he would survive without her for one day. Possibly he wouldn’t even notice. Well, he might _notice,_ but likely only because he would be hungry. There’d be no worry about the drinks; the girls knew.

Still, perhaps she’d been a little too harsh with him yesterday. She could have stayed to explain, that for years she had put up with everyone treating her either like a child or an idiot or both, either because of her lingual deficiency or her looks, and while he might not have meant it, blithely assuming that she would be fine because she was ‘an intelligent woman’ was supremely naïve and condescending as hell. But while she could think that, it was far harder to articulate it.

Frowning, she tried to put him out of her mind. She was probably a lot more worried about it than he was, anyway. It barely qualified as an argument, did it? Besides, he rarely spoke to her unless she initiated, and if he did, it was usually to ask for something. Usually rum. Therefore, he was probably not that bothered.

She realized she’d been scratching her head as she thought and sighed. It had been nearly a month since she’d unpinned the monstrous braid and given it a wash; it was long overdue. A long soak in the ocean would help get rid of the crawlies. It would just take forever to dry, but fortunately it was sunny today. She’d treated herself and worn the comb while she cleaned, but she plucked it out and left it on the table, not wanting to risk losing it.

Following the faint trail in the forest that she’d made over the years, she rounded a rock outcropping and stepped onto sand. This was a tiny cove she’d found when she’d first scouted the area, and as far as she knew, no one ever went there. She discarded her boots and socks in the lee of the outcropping and spent several minutes pulling out the various strings and pins that held her hair up.

When it was finally free of its restraints, a cascade of thick ebony fell to the backs of her knees. The only reason it wasn’t longer was because she’d conceded that it would be a hazard to have it actually trail on the ground. It still pained her to cut it, every time. With a shake of her head, she waded into the water. The cold stunned her stomach, and the salt stung her skin, but she sank in up to the neck and sighed. The gentle wash of waves fanned her hair around her like an oil spill, and she ducked her head under. The sting of salt soothed the itch of her scalp, but it also burned on her cheek, causing her to hiss.

Oh, yes. She’d completely forgotten about that little incident. She gently ran a finger along the cut, which was mostly closed, the key word there being _mostly_. That was going to be annoying. With a sigh, she ignored the pain and patiently started to scrub.

The sun was just starting its descent towards the horizon, as she floated on her back in the shallows, when she had a sudden sensation of being watched. Sitting up sharply, she looked up to the rock outcropping, just in time to see a person dart back behind it.

She might have been alarmed, but she thought she recognized the no-longer-white wisps escaping from their hat.

“Did you miss me so much, Mr. James?” she called, sitting on the sandy bottom, so that the water covered her to her neck.

Hesitantly, like a child caught out by mother, he emerged from behind the rock, staring steadfastly at his feet.

“Come closer, I don’t want to shout,” she said, and watched with amusement as he shuffled closer. She had never seen his face so red, even at his drunkest.

“I-I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t think—I wasn’t intending to—that is, I had no idea you were—” he stuttered, clearly wishing he was elsewhere.

“You should join me,” she said frankly. “You’re more mud than man, you know.”

His head jerked up to stare at her incredulously, but his gaze was quickly yanked back down to his feet.

“I—”

“I know,” she interrupted with a sigh. “I know you are a gentleman, Mr. James. But you really should consider a bath.”

He grimaced, then sat on the sand.

“So. How did you find me?” she asked. Somehow, he looked even more uncomfortable.

“I asked the girl,” he mumbled. “I was—well, I—”

“You were hungry?” she suggested.

“I was _worried_ ,” he snapped, meeting her gaze at last. With impeccable timing, she heard his stomach rumble, and he looked away again. “Hunger was…incidental. I had thought…after yesterday, you might be…upset.”

She blinked. “Upset?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “I assumed—considering where we left off—when you didn’t come in, I thought it was because you were angry with me.”

She blinked. Well. That was almost sweet. Frankly it was a minor miracle that he even remembered the conversation, let alone that he would bother to seek her out to check on her. Certainly it galled her that he insisted on staying here and wallowing in his misery, in the faint hopes of catching a man who was more slippery than an eel in a bucket of egg whites, but ultimately it wasn’t her choice. If she could nudge him in what she considered the right direction, she would, but she had no right to be angry at his refusal. Perhaps she’d been a little sharp.

She stared at him, this filthy, beaten down man with pride in strange places and grey eyes that blazed only when alight with inebriated fury, eyes that were swimming with embarrassed defiance at the moment, and realized she was stuck with him. Or rather, _he_ was stuck with her.

“I am—I’m fine, Mr. James. I am not angry. Even _I_ have days off, sometimes,” she said lightly. He grunted. “But, thank you for worrying. I admit I was a little worried for you, too.”

He looked surprised at that, and finally managed to settle his gaze on her face for longer than a second.

“Why?”

She wrinkled her nose. “You are like a stray dog. Of course I worry.”

This time, his expression wrinkled. “’Stray dog’?”

“Yes. You are lost and dirty and come to me for food. How would _you_ describe yourself?” she challenged.

“…Fair enough.”

They fell into silence or a while, and she wondered how to approach getting out of the water. She wasn’t overly keen on letting him see her in such a state, but was even less keen on letting on that she cared. Much better to pretend it was fine and that _he_ was the one getting bent out of shape. Bodies were bodies, after all, and surely he’d seen them before? If someone had to be off-balance, she preferred it not be her.

“I didn’t realize your hair was so long,” he said quietly.

“Oh…yes. I keep it tied up for a reason,” she said, absently running her fingers through a few heavy tendrils.

“Is there a reason you keep it so long?” he asked. She gave him a shrewd look, though he was too busy staring at the sand to notice.

“Yes.”

For a moment, he waited, then, “And that is…?”

“Not important,” she said airily. He scowled.

“Oh please, Miss Florence. I’ve told you my sorry story, don’t you think it only fair to reveal something of yours?”

Raising an eyebrow, she slowly stood. For an instant, his gaze darted to her, before he pointedly turned his back.

“Mr. James, you’ve seen me in nothing but a wet robe. Don’t you think I have revealed enough?” she said, forcing herself to sound playful rather than embarrassed.

“Touché,” he answered, his voice just slightly higher than normal. She smiled and walked up the shore until the waves only just lapped at her ankles.

“How did you know to come here, anyway?” she asked, as she tried to wring her hair out as best she could. It would be far too heavy otherwise.

“I didn’t. I came to the hov—er, your—home, that your coworker had informed me of, failed to find you, then spotted a faint trail that led me here.”

“Not many would have noticed that track,” she said, impressed.

“Yes, surprisingly, I can manage _some_ things without you,” he replied, a little stiffly. He yelped as a small drawstring bag full of hairpins hit him.

“Then I’m sure you can carry that back for me,” she said sweetly. “It will save it getting wet.”

With a grunt, he picked up the bag and got to his feet, walking swiftly back along to the hut. She followed, still wringing herself out. Not that it mattered much, since she was going to rinse off with water from the well, but it made a few ounces’ difference.

He paused in her doorway, resolutely not looking to her for an answer.

“You can wait inside,” she told him, and he quickly ducked out of sight. She stared at the door a moment, then smiled and left for the well.

She spent several minutes dumping cold water over her head and shivering in the shade. Then she soaked her hair in the bucket a few times, careful not to let it drip into the crude ring of stones that marked the well. She collected drinking water from there, after all.

She had a quiet chuckle. Mr. James had come to find her. Stray dog, indeed.

James stepped into the—let’s face it— _hovel_ , expecting a tiny, rude place of squalor and despair. Then he realized he was projecting, because the inside was relatively open and clean, for all that it had dirt floors. Woven mats covered the dirt, and the fact that they weren’t disintegrating told him that they were changed semi-regularly. A table made of cast-off timber and lashed with rope occupied one side of the room and was even almost straight. A crate served as a chair, and had a cushion made of patchwork on it. There was a fire pit dug into the floor, and the area around it was well-clear of anything that could burn. In it were ashes, the remains of some firewood, and a kettle. Various things hung from the ceiling, pots and onions and cloth sacks full of lumpy things.

On the table sat a tea set similar to the one Flo used in the back room of the _Bride_ , although “set” was a little misleading, since it consisted of one cup and one tea pot, both mismatched, but, as far as his amateur eye could tell, were slightly better quality than the ones he was used to. There was also a little mahogany comb. He wondered how frequently she found goods from her homeland here. Certainly Tortuga boasted pirates and sailors from all over the world, but there was an awful lot of ocean between here and East Asia.

There seemed to be another room, too, and the doorway there had an old coat, hung there as a sort of curtain. It was threadbare and torn in places, and also looked a little too small for an adult. For a moment, the idea that she had a child sent a sudden and visceral terror shooting through him, then he concluded it must have been hers. She _had_ said that she’d arrived here many years ago…although frankly, he had no idea how old she was. Her face said early twenties, her attitude said resigned immortal. Forced to guess, he would have split the difference and said thirty.

He set the drawstring bag down on the crate and sat on the floor, leaning against a wall. He had half-expected Miss Florence’s home to be just as barren of personal information as the woman herself, so it was a nice surprise to see evidence of her past life, however little it was to go on. He found his eye drawn to the comb, to the gold paint that sparkled even in the dimness of the hut. Despite its size, the painting was highly detailed, depicting a pheasant running, tail feathers streaming elegantly out behind it, a branch of a tree overhanging it, laden with flowers. He could only imagine that to get such fine lines, one would have to use a single hair as a brush. It was a surprisingly nice thing to see in such impoverished surroundings. Where had she gotten it?

His thoughts were drifting into a sort of stupor of speculation when the door opened, and Miss Florence entered, still dripping wet. He started and closed his eyes, feeling another blush coming on.

“Please inform me when you will be clothed,” he said, slumping against the wall. She chuckled.

“Does it bother you so much?”

“Yes.”

“Why? You are three months in Tortuga now, Mr. Norrington, and you have never once visited our fair ladies,” she said, sounding wryly amused. “I should think I hold no interests for you.”

He felt his mouth fall open at that, and the blush was hotter than ever. It was true—of all the vices he’d taken up, lust was still not one of them. And Miss Florence—well, he’d simply never considered her in that light. She was always just—there. Bringing him things. Smiling enigmatically. Caring for him, in fact, when he thought of it, a hell of a lot more than he deserved, and he had no idea why.

Being confronted with her nearly naked, though, was somewhat forcing him to consider what his stance was on the issue. Even with his eyes closed, and now his hands over them, the brief glimpse he’d gotten was painting itself on the insides of his eyelids unbidden. He tried to breathe slowly, and _think_.

“Perhaps you simply do not care for…women?” she continued, a soupçon of teasing in her tone.

“I—that isn’t—” He gave up with a sigh, wishing for a drink. He hung his head between his knees and spoke from there. “Miss Florence, you are a…perfectly fine woman, but you are correct that I have no…intimate interest in you. My interest still lies with…” A flash of a dazzling smile, golden brown hair, impish eyes— “…someone else.”

“Ah,” she said. “You have not told me _this_ part of your story. You are disgraced _and_ heartbroken.”

He grunted. “Thank you for your succinct summation.”

“You’re welcome.” There were rustling sounds, which he assumed and hoped were of her putting clothes on. Propriety was deeply ingrained in him, to the marrow, and the sooner they returned to some semblance of it, the better. “You can look now.”

Cautiously, he raised his head, and found her more or less suitably dressed, sitting on the crate. She was rolling up her hair in a rough, large towel, squeezing it methodically as the endless inches of black were swallowed up in fabric.

“Is long hair important, in your country?” he asked, for something to say. She glanced up at him and shrugged.

“Yes, sort of. Women should keep their hair long, they said. I used to think it was bothersome when I was younger, but then I left, and…” She had rolled the towel up to her shoulders now, and massaged it. “It is a small thing, but it helps me feel I have not completely abandoned my roots.”

This was the most he had ever heard her say of her past. She always seemed reluctant to touch it. But perhaps now was the time to ask…

“Miss Florence…forgive me if this is an intrusion, but…why _did_ you leave?”

She looked up sharply, and for a moment he felt skewered by her eyes, black as her hair. Then she turned back to the table with a shrug.

“I was young. I wanted to explore,” she said simply. He furrowed his brow, drawing on essentially nothing.

“Hasn’t your country forbidden you to leave?” he asked, one of two facts he knew about Japan, the other being that only a select few foreigners were allowed to go there at all. The East India Trading Company had somehow managed to set up a small branch office there, otherwise it was mainly the Dutch. She shrugged again.

“That is why I cannot go back. I would be executed.”

“Why did you think it was worth the risk?” The words were out before he could think twice, and he regretted them when he saw a flash of—anger? Regret? No, he could almost say… _anguish_. But it was gone in an instant, thrown off by a shrug.

“I was given a job,” she said. He might have asked further, but that instant of pain that crossed her face kept him quiet. She turned to him with a smile. “But that doesn’t matter anymore. I would rather hear of your lost love. If it is not too painful for you?”

He stared at her. _It_ is _too painful_ , he thought, as years of memories tugged at different corners of his brain. So many smiles and quiet moments, dinners at the governor’s mansion, some of the fits of temper _she_ had got into when she was younger—she was so… _vibrant_. As haughty and proper and cold as befitted her station when necessary, but also so very warm and full of life, when the fancy took her. Each memory soothed and stabbed at once, and he wondered how he could change the subject—

“She is…the daughter of the governor in Port Royal,” he found himself saying. “Due to be married soon, I expect.”

“Ah,” she said. “Someone came after you?”

He scowled. “Possibly quite some time _before_ me, if I had ever looked.” He could hardly begrudge the blacksmith for falling in love with her—hadn’t he done the same? And he couldn’t fault her for choosing someone who was closer in age, who had openly adored her since their meeting as children. Someone who had flown to her rescue without a thought for consequences, for strategy, for anything other than love.

At least, his surface thoughts, the ones that dressed every exiting word to the nines and read the room and kept his morals tacked up on a wall to check against, didn’t grudge them. And his love for her caused him to wish fervently for her health and happiness, even as it ate him from the inside. But beneath those…

There was another part of him that had been growing the past few months, fed by failure and pain and drink, getting louder by the day. It growled and stalked and lashed out, whipping him with his mistakes, taunting him with visions of how things could have been— _should have been_ , it whispered, dripping bile and hatred into his spine like a slow, seductive poison. It was shameful, and he should have shut it out immediately, but what else did he have to dwell on these days? In the hot, blurry slosh of alcohol it bubbled up and fogged his thoughts like noxious swamp gas, and to keep it at bay and give it a target, he thought of pirates. One pirate, in particular, of course.

_Jack Sparrow_. That was the chew toy he tossed to the beast, to keep it away from undeserving targets, to give it something to fester on other than his bittersweet memories. It scared him, sometimes, the thoughts it conjured up, the bitter, searing, fervid _fury_ …

“Tell me about her.”

The beast quieted down, shooed back to its cave to wait, replaced by a warmer image.

“Why?”

“I would like to know.”

And that seemed to be it. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t need more convincing. He fixed his inner eyes on Elizabeth Swann and let the words fall as they would. 

“She was…beautiful. Sharp witted, sharp tongued. The finest woman I ever knew. Her father is a dear friend, although…perhaps he would no longer consider me as such. A good man. He doted on her and encouraged me to pursue her. Were things otherwise, I imagine we could have done much together, to improve the whole of the Caribbean.” And doubt crept over, like a sudden storm cloud over the sun.

“Then again…who knows if I ever could have satisfied her? Even without the other man…I have known her for almost ten years now. She has always been a little wild. It may have been spending her teenage years on a tropical island that stirred her, but I suspect she would never have truly been happy as a quiet socialite. She would have insisted on coming with me on work missions, and that would never do. She always had been fascinated by pirates…” And the storm cloud grew, and the beast growled.

“She chose a pirate?”

Hearing it put that way stung more than any whip lash could, and the suddenness of it drew a low growl. He needed a drink.

“She chose a good man who loves her,” he said shortly. “I only wish them happiness.”

Finally, Miss Florence looked up, hands stilled around the towel. She scrutinized him, and he, for once, didn’t avert his gaze. He was too tired. For a long moment, she watched, and he simply sat.

“What an interesting man you are, Mr. James,” she said at last, in a soft voice. This was sufficiently unexpected that he temporarily had no thoughts or feelings at all.

“What?”

She smiled and unraveled the towel, careful not to let her hair touch the ground. It was damp, but not dripping anymore. She tossed the towel at him, and he spluttered as it hit in him the face.

“Wipe your face, at least. You are covered in dirt. Did they throw you out last night?”

He grumbled wordlessly, taking her advice. He _had_ been, but he wasn’t about to admit it. Not that she needed verbal confirmation. It was still a bit of a shock to see just how much dirt blackened the towel after he’d judged himself clean. He felt a sudden, visceral wave of disgust and self-loathing, and he threw the towel back to her with a barely suppressed growl. She caught it in one hand and, after finishing pinning her hair back into place, silently knelt in front of him. He watched her, helpless and frozen with anger, as she wiped away dirt he had missed. The towel swept along the edges of his face, down his neck, but he grabbed her wrist to stop her when she started on an ear.

“There is no need to mother me, Miss Florence,” he said icily. She looked, just briefly, surprised, and he was certain that if it weren’t for their close proximity, he never would have noticed the flash of it in her eyes. Then she smiled, a little wanly he thought.

“Are you certain of that?” she asked, and it was a moment before he recognized that she was teasing, which dulled the spike of annoyance somewhat. “Perhaps not a need, but a want,” she added, withdrawing her hand from his grasp. “It is simply…in my nature.”

Was it? He tried to think. She had a sort of camaraderie with the regulars who treated her civilly, and they often exchanged warm greetings. Up to that point he’d assumed that was the extent of it, but perhaps they had arrangements too. The thought didn’t sit entirely well with him, and he was completely flummoxed as to why until he realized that it was jealousy.

_Jealousy?_ No, it wasn’t quite so bitter as that…he was, perhaps, put out. But why? He had never _asked_ for her attention, and who she bestowed it on besides him was absolutely none of his business. To assume that he was the only one she’d ever taken notice of was pure arrogance. He banished the feeling, and it evaporated like mist in the sun. With a soft breath, he looked at her, noticing the half-healed cut on her face and feeling a surge of guilt.

“At the risk of sounding ungrateful, Miss Florence…why?” The question surprised him as much as her. She sat back on her haunches, raising an eyebrow.

“Why what?”

“Why trouble yourself over someone like me?” he said, finding now that he’d asked, he desperately wanted to know. She stared at him, and he could see the rapid shift in emotions in her eyes. Confusion, resignation, amusement, and finally thoughtful focus.

“I don’t know,” she said, frankly. “When I saw you first, I knew your clothes would make trouble. I did not want trouble.” She shrugged. “Then, I thought you would be useful. For lessons. You are a drunk, but surprisingly, a thinking drunk. Those are rare.” She smiled. “But, really, all I thought was, I can help him. Just a little.”

“I see.” And that seemed to be it.

“Why did you want to know?”

He frowned. “I…” _Because I don’t deserve help._ He shrugged. “Your motivations are always a mystery to me. I was simply curious.”

She laughed, and the sound startled him. It wasn’t that she never laughed, but it was much rarer than her smile.

“I am mysterious to you?” she asked, sounding deeply amused.

“Considering that I could list everything I know of your past on my fingers, yes, you could say I find you _mysterious_ ,” he replied dryly.

“Good. It is always useful to be mysterious,” she said. “But you have spoiled it a little by finding my home. Only four—” She paused infinitesimally before continuing, “—three people know where it is, four with you, now.” She looked vaguely out the window and he squinted suspiciously at her.

“Four?”

She shook her head, recovering quickly, but not quickly enough. “Just a mistake.” Her tone was deceptively casual, but he just continued to stare at her. Normally, this made people uncomfortable and led to further information. Unfortunately, she simply stared back, then stood.

“You must be hungry,” she said, and he half considered trying to interrogate her further. It was less the information itself than the act of getting her to divulge it—any of it. It was like a puzzle. Of course, what people chose to tell of their pasts was entirely up to them, but…

He thought about it while she started preparing something, lighting the fire in the fire pit. No, he didn’t have a justification for it, he was just deeply curious.

Well, he hardly had anything better to do. Insofar as he still had goals, finding Jack Sparrow and revenging himself upon him was still the main one, but seeing as progress on that front was so very erratic and unpredictable—rather like the man himself—he could probably afford one more. He would find a way to discover more about Miss Florence’s past. Somehow.

“Where did you get that comb?” he asked, nodding at the thing. She glanced at it while pulling down a string of onions from where they were hung.

“I bought it,” she said, and he sensed he would get nowhere with this.

“Must you be so secretive?” he sighed.

“Does it bother you?” she asked. He paused.

“As it happens, yes.”

She smiled. “I apologize. But the past, you see, is past. For me, it is just…gone. Done. I am here now. I may not like ‘here,’ but there is nothing to do but keep going.”

“’Keep going’ in this case meaning ‘staying put’?” he asked, tensing a little as they circled back to the topic of yesterday’s argument. She raised an eyebrow.

“Do you truly not understand?” she asked. He shrugged.

“I can see that you may have a few disadvantages, were you to try making a living elsewhere. But from what I’ve seen of you thus far, Miss Florence, I believe you would be able to overcome them with ease.”

For a moment, she didn’t move, frozen in the act of peeling an onion. Then she smiled softly.

“Well, thank you,” she said. “I believe you do not understand just how little this world thinks of someone like me, but what you said is nice.”

“’This world’? You seem to command the respect of everyone in the _Bride_ ,” he said. She gave him a flat look.

“How many years do you think it has taken?” she asked, and he frowned.

“What was it like…before?”

She thought a while before answering. “I was still very young. I had to run. Hide. Wait. People saw me as someone to steal from or beat or bed. Someone to tease and kick. But I learned. And so did they.”

There was something slightly ominous in the way she said the last, and he stared at her. Maybe he _didn’t_ want to know what had happened in her past. This impression was not helped by the way she was now chopping the onions. He watched her work for a while before venturing, hesitantly, “If you _could_ go home…would you?”

She froze again, staring at her hands as though they had suddenly sprouted fur. Then she relaxed a little, fixing him with the saddest smile he had ever seen.

“No, Mr. James, I would not.”

He drew a breath through his nose. “…Why?”

She continued working for a while before saying, “Even if I would not be killed, there would be nothing left for me there. I would be…too foreign.”

“In your own country?”

“It has not been my country for a long time. And I left when I was young. I am not an Englishwoman, but now I could not be a proper Japanese woman, either. I have lived with barbarians for too long.” This last she said with a little sardonic smile at him, to show she meant no harm.

“Is that how your people view us?” he asked, very much surprised. She shrugged.

“Some people. Why do you think the country is closed?”

“Yet some trade is allowed?”

She nodded. “Somethings are useful. But this must be boring for you.”

“Not at all,” he said, recognizing this for the subject-changing ploy that it was. Though it wasn’t directly related to her own past, it was a start. Besides, his own knowledge of her home country was so sparse that it was actually quite interesting. “Please continue.”

Frowning, she looked out the window, as if hoping for some distraction to save her from explaining. When none seemed forthcoming, she sighed.

“There is not much to say. I do not think you would want to hear what my people say about yours.”

“On the contrary, particularly now that you’ve said that,” he said, settling more comfortably against the wall.

“Well…at worst, you are greedy, white demons, with poor manners and no learning, and insatiable lust.” Her tone was casual, as though she were reading off a shopping list, and he spluttered.

“What?” he croaked, and she nearly laughed.

“At worst, I said. Nicer people think you are simply funny people and your lack of manners is charming, like a stupid child.”

“You have a strange definition of _nicer_ ,” he said dryly.

“Smart people understand that you would not know our ways because you have come from so far away, and that it is only natural that we would not know yours. But, it is quite funny, you see, because many people here have thought the same things about me.” She had been working as she spoke, and, vegetables now chopped, she pulled down a pot from above and began scooting them into it. She then suspended the pot over it with a stick.

“About you?”

“Oh, yes. Almost all the same things, only of course I am not white.” She stood, gathering things from around the cottage as she spoke.

“’Insatiable lust’?” he asked, both wary and incredulous.

“Some think all unmarried women are whores,” she said frankly. “More so if they are not…usual.” She poured some water from a weathered leather skin into the cauldron, raising steam. Then she began throwing in pinches of what he assumed were spices from various little tins. Most were embossed with the East India Trading Company’s mark, though he doubted she bought directly.

He would have liked to able to deny this claim, but he knew it was true. “You seem to be…accustomed to it,” he commented.

“Of course I am. I have heard it every day for years. Why should I _not_ be used to it?”

He thought about this. In his early days in the Navy, he had endured quite a lot of abuse, both verbal and physical, from both his shipmates and officers. That had been terrible enough, and most of it unjustified, but some part of him felt that what she was talking about was somehow different, although he couldn’t explain why. He was enduring similar abuse now, wasn’t he? Beaten and targeted simply for his uniform, for his accent, for simply being alive in the same room as someone who decided they didn’t like him.

_You could go anywhere_.

Her words and the wonder and envy with which she had said them, came back like the sudden gust that heralds a hurricane. In this case, it heralded a headache. He felt like he’d understood something, but suddenly couldn’t put it into words. He sagged, the room slowly staring to spin around him.

Then there was a hand on his shoulder, and he snapped back to himself, although his head still throbbed dully.

“How long since you have had rum?” she asked, looking intently into his eyes. He thought about it.

“Last night,” he said. She looked surprised.

“I thought you were at the _Bride_ today,” she said. His brow furrowed as he tried to remember.

“I was…but I asked for you and came straight here,” he said. Something in her eyes softened, but she stood before he could puzzle out what the emotion might have been. Rummaging in a crate across the room, she withdrew a bottle of what looked like wine. Popping the cork, she poured it into the teacup on the table, along with some water from the gently bubbling cauldron.

“It will taste a little strange,” she cautioned, “but you should have some water too.”

Dubious, he took the cup from her and sipped anyway. He pulled a face. She was right, it _was_ strange, but not unbearable. Something like a saltier spiced wine. He had to admit he felt a bit better after a few sips.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence until he had drained his cup and placed it on the table. She eyed him critically and nodded to herself.

“Since you are here, perhaps we can have today’s lesson?” she said, even as she stirred whatever she was cooking up. Settling himself at the table, he nodded.

“Very well.”

They went over the usual list of difficult words she’d yet to master, which was updated fairly regularly as she learned them and he added new, then on to intonation. Then, as the afternoon began edging into dusk, they moved onto etiquette. This had been his least favorite as a child, he remembered, but she seemed eager to learn this just as much, never complaining about the endless and sometimes seemingly meaningless little rites and rituals that came with high society.

“It’s like having the password,” she said with a little grin, when he asked why. “An easy way in.”

_Easy?_ He thought of all the pressure of rising in the ranks, knowing that the eyes of the world were always on you, watching for the slightest misconduct or scandal to push you down from your perch, how quick the fall could be. How you could lose everything with one decision.

“Perhaps, Miss Florence, but I would be curious to see if you would want to remain there,” he said heavily.

She only smiled and served him soup in a tea cup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no historical evidence that I can find that the British EITC had a proper office in Japan, but it was in the POTC wiki. I briefly debated whether to include it because of this, but then I remembered that this is fanfiction for a universe with octopus men and skeleton pirates so strict historical accuracy seems a moot point
> 
> Incidentally, it is bloody hard to research the specific period of 1700-1720ish in Japanese because it gets lumped into the "middle" of the Edo period, which is a lot more flexible with dates. It doesn't help that reading in Japanese is still hella slow and hard for me, so most of my research is definitely still done in English.


	5. Portents and Pretense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another somewhat abrupt ending; this chapter also ended up being around 10,000 words, which...I mean, I guess nothing is stopping me from doing longer chapters, but I thought it might be kind of jarring to go from around 4500 to 10,000 all at once. It was not easy finding a place to cut it off, which might be a sign that I should have just sucked it up and posted it in full. I'm just also worried that if I don't keep an already-written chapter as a buffer I might end up missing an update. Or who knows, maybe it'll motivate me to write more. I don't know, let me know if you prefer longer chapters, I guess?

_She stood on the deck of the ship, staring out to sea, the tedium of seeing nothing but open water for the third day running starting to creep in on her. With no way to envision the future, she recalled the past, and it was beginning to hurt._

_She heard footsteps behind her and quickly straightened up, turning to see who approached._

_Abruptly, the sky went dark, as though night had fallen in an instant. The thread of memory weaved itself through her emotions and became a dream, bringing her father to her on the deck._

_“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching a hand for her. She gave him a small satchel of coins._

_“No, you’re not,” she replied, feeling curiously detached. A hand clamped down on her shoulder and she was suddenly a child again, turning to see a black silhouette, with a large hat._

_She was in a ship’s hold, counting cargo and dividing shares._

_She was in a small but ornate room, counting money and calculating wages._

_“Well done, Florins. Take these, you’ve earned them,” said a blurry figure, and pressed two small coins into her hand. They melted in her palm and streaked up her arm, dull bronze circling her wrists and suddenly weighing as much as an anchor, dragging her down, down, down, into the depths of the sea. She clawed and screamed, but nothing but bubbles left her mouth, and she hit the wooden bottom, gasping and raising her head to find herself_ —

—in bed. She stared at the ceiling, faintly illuminated by pre-dawn grey, clutching at her blanket and taking deep breaths. The details of the dream were already slipping away, leaving an unpleasant residue in her chest. Once her breathing had returned to normal, she did what she always did when she felt this way.

She got out of bed and got ready for work.

Mr. James had left after supper yesterday, though she’d offered to let him stay the night. He’d grown desperately uncomfortable and left with a mumbled, “Thank you, Miss Florence, good night.” She sighed. Stubborn man. Was sleeping with pigs in the mud preferable to the perceived impropriety of sleeping in a house that happened to also have a woman in it? It was hardly as though she would have insisted they sleep in the same bed. No, it would have been a thin blanket and the cushion by the fire pit, but even that had to be better than whatever he was going to get in town. Why did he insist on making things difficult for himself?

Or maybe he _did_ have better arrangements in town…how was she to know? She didn’t _really_ know what he did when he was away from the _Bride_. It wasn’t her business to ask. Although she _did_ know about his lack of visits with the ladies, both because she knew he was broke and because she was friends with Martha Marsh, or, as she was to her customers, Missy, the owner of the brothel next to the _Bride_. When Flo had been telling her about the Navy Man, Martha had said she’d keep an eye out for him, and frequently complained that she or any of her girls had yet to meet him.

She smiled to herself as she stepped out of the house. It had been far too long since she’d spoken to Martha; she’d have to make time. Ordinarily, she would have gone yesterday, but obviously that hadn’t happened.

Making her way through town with the first rays of morning light lighting the way for stray chickens and a few stumbling drunks, she hummed quietly to herself. She met Arabella at the door of the _Bride_ , a body slung over one shoulder, dark rings under her eyes, her dusky brown skin looking paler than usual.

“About time, Flo,” she exclaimed, though there was no bite to it. Flo raised an eyebrow.

“Bad night?” she asked. Arabella nodded, unceremoniously tossing aside the body into a pile of broken crates nearby. A loud groan proved that it wasn’t a corpse. Neither paid it much attention.

“Remind me never to take a day and night shift together,” said Arabella, as the pair stepped into the gloom of the tavern. Flo only grinned.

“Thank you. My laundry is happy,” she said, patting her on the shoulder. “Go home now. You look like the dead.”

“Oh, thank you.” This was said dryly, with an eye roll punctuated by a yawn. “Good luck with the pile at the back,” she added, pointing to a dim shape in the back of the tavern. Squinting at it, Flo could just make it out to be a pile of bodies. She raised an eyebrow. That was quite a lot, even for Tortuga.

“Dead?”

“Nah. Well, probably. Mostly,” was the reply. “And before you ask, he isn’t here.”

Flo furrowed her brow. “Who?”

Arabella grinned. “Your Navy man, missy. He find you yesterday?”

“Yes, but I thought he came back here,” she said, frowning.

“Well, if he did, I didn’t see him. What’s on between you, anyway? Everyone’s mad to know!”

“We…” She paused. What was supposed to say? Arabella wouldn’t be satisfied if she simply said Mr. James was her English teacher. What _was_ on between them, anyway? She had never stopped to try and put a word to it. “We are just…friends.” The word tasted strange and foreign on her tongue, but it would do.

Arabella raised an eyebrow at her in obvious skepticism, but seemed to decide she was too tired to press further. “Alright then. Philly said he’d be coming in today ‘round noon. Have the money for him, yeah?”

“Of course. Sleep well, Bella.”

With a nod and a yawn, the girl left, and Flo started setting the bar to rights as usual. She liked Arabella; she was the only employee who had been there for longer than her, but was somehow a few years younger than her. Arabella was practically the face of the _Bride_ , and on good terms with just about everybody. Befriending her, or rather, being befriended by her, had been the first big step for Flo’s own network of allies and acceptance into whatever passed for ‘community’ in these parts.

_“You look like you’ve come a long way, huh? Got a name?_ ”

_Her name. What would her name be, here? It was already abundantly clear that she would need to be someone new to survive in this strange new land, and trying to introduce herself with her real name had already gone badly before. Mr. Perkins had always called her…_

_“Florins,” she said, hands clenched at her sides._

_“Florence, eh? Nice to meet you. Mind if I call you Flo?”_

Flo found herself smiling and clenching her fists simultaneously at the memory. It had been a long time since she’d thought back to those first few months. She put it out of her mind and went to check on the pile of people in back.

Up close, it looked less like a stack of corpses and more like a pack of rats nestled together to sleep. It was almost sweet, if you liked that sort of thing, and she resolved to leave them until everything else was cleaned. Maybe they would wake of their own accord, which would save her back.

Last night had apparently been rowdier than usual, with several lamps shattered around the place and one table smashed beyond repair, among lesser damage. It took her a while to get things into some semblance of order, by which time it was midmorning and the pile of pirates had gradually disentangled itself, groaning and shuffling out the door with vague waves or murmurs in her direction. She saw them off and settled in with the account book to get things in order for Phil.

For once, the place was utterly deserted while she worked, which only happened very rarely. It usually meant there weren’t many ships in port, but of course that could change at any moment.

A little before noon, or near as she could judge from the light outside, Phil showed up. He was a burly middle-aged man with deep red hair that stood out in the general gloom of the bar.

"Afternoon, Flo,” he said, in a kind of modulated sigh, which was how he usually spoke.

“Hello, Phil,” she replied, pushing a drawstring bag that clanked with coin towards him. He picked it up, then raised an eyebrow.

“Bit light, innit?” he said, though it was not accusatory. She shrugged.

“Look around. I had to take for repairs,” she said, patting a separate bag that contained considerably more than the one she had given him. He frowned and glanced about, then sighed.

“Been a lot of this recently, Flo. It’ll bleed me dry if it keeps up,” he lamented, gesturing for her to fill him a glass. She did so, pouring the good brandy. “I dunno, Flo, ever since you’ve been on days, it seems we get more o’ this.” He waved a hand at the nearest broken lamp. “Bella’s a good girl but she likes to run her bets on brawls, you know. Things were never so bad while it was you. What’s your secret, eh, Flo?”

She smiled. “I don’t know Phil. I just don’t like fighting,” she said placidly, keeping her thoughts away from the little box that held the drinks fund, just in case he could somehow sense it. He sighed.

“Give me the book,” he said, putting down his brandy glass. She silently pushed it over and kept her hands busy polishing a tankard.

“This is madness, woman,” he said at length, and if one were paying very close attention, they would see Flo’s jaw tighten. “I’m not having any more of it. I need you back on nights, Flo, at least five days out of the week. Bella’s been too reckless by far,” he said, tapping the book and sliding it back to her.

“Five days?” she blurted, relieved he hadn’t noticed the drinks fund, though it was outweighed by indignation. “You condemn me.”

“I know you don’t like it, but let’s face it, Flo, I don’t know how you do it but things just go better when you do it,” he wheedled. “I know you know how to keep things quiet. I never made half so much ‘fore you came along and you know I’m grateful, don’t you?”

She raised an eyebrow. “If I do more nights, who will do days?”

He paused guiltily, then went on, “Well, I’ll need to find a new one, but just give me a few days, and I’ll have Bella train them up, right? Come on, Flo, you know as well as me that this won’t do,” he said, jingling the profit bag, which was, admittedly, smaller than usual. When he saw her unmoved expression, he shifted uncomfortably and added, “…And I’ll pay you double, if you keep on.”

_Double_. For a moment, all the stupid brawls and marauding and harassing and terrors of night shift screamed through her head, but they were drowned out by one word. _Double_.

She stuck out her hand, palm up. “Pay first. For the month. Then go find a new girl for days. Right now.”

“You’re an angel, Flo, you really are,” he grinned, pulling out a respectable handful of coins and handing them to her. “Can you start tonight?”

She sighed. “Of course.”

James found his head was clearer than it had been in months as he stared out over the bay. Miss Florence’s strange mishmash soup seemed to have done him some good, as it was the only properly cooked meal he’d had in ages, though it was mostly onions. He hadn’t gone back to town last night, choosing instead to sit on the beach at the cove where he’d found her, though he tried not to think about that bit. He’d stared glassily at the sea and stars for hours, and when he’d tired of that, he’d found that hunkering down in the lee of the rocks of the cove kept him sheltered from the wind. He’d slept with his coat over himself, a natural, peaceful sleep, something that he had also not had in months. He’d woken around midday, thirsty, but otherwise feeling almost…good. So, instead of going straight to the tavern, he’d taken a detour to the docks.

There was only one ship in today, and a small sloop at that, but for once he wasn’t after information. He sat on a crate on the dock, taking advantage of his mental clarity by taking a hard look at his life.

It had been three months—almost four now—since he’d arrived here. Three full months of relentless, howling internal anguish, more if you counted from Tripoli, and the hurricane. It was a varied and nuanced anguish, full of shame and disgust and rage, among others, and it had been so loud that he couldn’t bear to listen. So he drank. It didn’t diminish the roar, but it blurred his focus on it.

Today, though, he was sober, yet the roar was…distant. Almost separate, as though it were some physical object he could take out of himself and examine. He snorted softly. If only it were so simple. He could hurl it into the sea and…

_And what?_

The roar came surging back, but he shoved it away. He wasn’t ready to go back into that storm, and it was an apt metaphor. This must be the eye of it, some brief moment of rational calm that let him see himself as he really was.

Dishonored, filthy, pathetic, and…free.

He frowned. Free? From what? Obligation? Duty? Society? Those were all true, but the problem was…he hated it. He didn’t have to take orders, or avoid social faux pas. He didn’t answer to anyone but himself, and it was _killing_ him. How did so many find such utter disorder appealing? Why was debauchery considered an indulgence? ‘Guilty pleasure’? Guilt he had in spades, surely he was owed some pleasure by now.

But there was nothing. Nothing but the distant howling.

_You could go anywhere_.

He frowned as Miss Florence’s words came back to him, again. Perhaps…perhaps he could. He could stroll over to that sloop anchored just a few hundred yards away, see if he could find out who the captain was. It would be a pirate vessel, as likely as not, but maybe he could barter passage to the American colonies. They were wild and lawless too, he’d heard, but if he went north, the climate would be more temperate, and perhaps the people would be too. He could start a new life there. Wasn’t that the point of the colonies? Sailors were always in demand, and if he’d had enough of the sea, he knew he was strong, healthy, and quick to learn. There would be something to turn his hand to, surely.

For a moment, it all sounded so _easy_. He was on the verge of getting up and doing it, he could feel it, and the howling faded even more, perhaps he could—

“Aye, _sure_ yeh did, mate!” A strident, slurry voice cut through his thoughts as a couple of sailors passed behind him.

“Did too! Was caught righ’ between two Navy war ships, but we blew up our powder, righ’, cuz we knew we was goin’ to t’gallows if’n they caught us anyway, so we got the bastards! E’ryone o’ the crew _poof!_ Naught but ashes! But I got away wi’ just me leg gone, blown off by shrapnel but cauterized by the fire, sawbones said!”

“Yer _daft_ , mate, not even Jack Sparrow coulda got outta shite like that!”

The tentative rays of hope that had been creeping into James’s heart fled at the sound of the hated name, and the roar was instantly back, tearing through his fledgling speculations with cold, hard fury. He stood abruptly, face like thunder, and strode determinedly to _The Faithful Bride_.

Miss Florence was uncharacteristically still when he arrived, and the bar unusually empty. Perhaps that was why she was standing listlessly at the bar, one hand on her chin, the other cupping her elbow.

“Has something happened?” he said, in lieu of a greeting. She actually started, sure proof that she was troubled. Normally she seemed aware of everything around her. The smile she flashed him was brief and resigned.

“I’m afraid I will be working mostly nights for a while now,” she said, pouring him a glass. He eyed the bottle she put away and for a moment wanted to tell her to leave it out, because he was going to need it again in a minute anyway. But he resisted, taking a seat and pulling the glass towards him.

“I see. I assume this is a problem for you?”

“It will be a problem for both of us. It would be much harder to find time for lessons, and difficult for me to bring you food without others seeing. And until a new day girl comes, I will be here.”

He raised an eyebrow. “’Be here…’?” he prompted, but she shook her head.

“I will be here. No time to go home.”

He frowned. “Miss Florence, that sounds barbaric. When will you sleep?”

She shrugged. “There are two for nights…if it is quiet enough I will nap when the second comes in the afternoon.”

“And if it isn’t?” he asked sharply. She smiled.

“I will manage.”

“Shall,” he said, automatically. She frowned.

“I _shall_ manage,” she said, and smiled. “Wait a moment.”

Ducking into the back room, she emerged after a few minutes with some hard bread, a sausage, and cheese. Laying these before him, she said, “So, teacher, it may be—” She paused and amended, “This may be the last chance for a lesson, for a little while.” She bowed. “So please.”

He sighed a little, not necessarily out of reluctance but out of general melancholy, even as he reached for the food.

“Very well, Miss Florence, let us begin.”

Near sunset, a girl came in who he recognized as the one who had directed him to Miss Florence’s home.

“Flirting on the job, Flo?” she asked with a cheeky grin. Miss Florence kept a perfect deadpan.

“Of course,” she said, which made him glad he didn’t have any rum in his mouth at the time. He’d already had quite a lot of it.

The girl laughed and turned to James. “Hey, it’s Navy Boy. Alright then, sir?”

“Er,” was his articulate response. “Hello,” he said, somewhat helplessly. He was definitely drunk.

The girl stuck out a hand. “We haven’t really met properly yet, huh? I’m Arabella.”

“James Norrington,” he said, reluctantly taking her hand. It felt strange to exchange a neutral-to-friendly touch with a stranger after so long. He was surprised and somewhat alarmed when he felt sorry to let go.

“Pleasure to meet you, James,” Miss Arabella said, grinning hugely and, he felt, somewhat inappropriately.

“Yes. Er. A pleasure, yes,” he said, wondering why it had to be so hard to pluck the words out of his head.

“Boy, I can see why Flo asks you for English lessons,” she said sarcastically, moving round behind the bar to stand by Miss Florence. That remark stung more than he cared to show, but Miss Florence beat him to a response.

”He is a very good teacher, Bella.” And that was it, but the warm, matter-of-fact way she said it was quite touching. Miss Arabella must have heard it too, because she looked slightly chastised for a moment before waving a hand.

“Alright, alright, whatever you say, Flo.” She paused, shifting uncomfortably for a moment. “So…uh. Phil told me. About you taking nights. And why. And. I’m sorry.” She waved her hands again. “But it’s ridiculous, you know, he said he doesn’t even want me taking your days! Not until he can ‘trust me to tend without a chaperone’. It’s stupid! He better find someone else quick, or I’ll make him take them!”

Miss Florence smiled. “Thank you. But I’m sure he will find someone soon.”

“Why would you require a chaperone?” he asked. Miss Arabella scowled.

“I mayyy have been running a brawl betting pool, and Philly thinks that means I make people fight. I don’t have to _make_ people fight! They do it themselves! What’s wrong with a girl making a few extra coins on the side?” She shook her head despairingly. “So he put Flo in, because Flo’s his favorite, and she don’t cause trouble.”

“ _You_ are Phillip’s favorite,” Miss Florence said. “I just count money.”

“Yeah, and he says you make him more of it, so _you’re_ definitely his favorite.”

It was interesting to see the easy camaraderie between them as they talked. It was different to how Miss Florence spoke to the regulars, or customers, or even to him. There was a note of…softness, though it would have been hard to spot for a stranger.

He considered that for a moment. They were no longer strangers. How odd. 

Having heard the reason for the schedule change, as the night wore on he started watching for the difference between the two women’s bartending styles. It had taken him months to notice, but whenever Miss Florence was tending at night, there really were fewer fights, or at least, they were less rowdy. It was hard for a beginner to tell, but having been in the thick of many by now, he could tell the signs.

She was always alert, checking on the mood of the bar, nipping into groups of men who seemed ready to boil over and soothing them with alcohol and, though he couldn’t hear what she said usually, a joke it seemed, because she often left them laughing. Even while they were squeezing in a lesson, she would sometimes abruptly excuse herself to attend to a patron, though how she could keep an eye on the room while also paying attention to him was an utter mystery. These interruptions had occasionally happened before, but back then he hadn’t been nearly so invested in her progress and neglected to see what she was doing. Now he couldn’t help but study her technique.

He watched her—when he was sober enough—employ trickery, distraction, and breathtaking diplomacy to defuse countless fights in-the-making. In the face of this, he could see why Miss Arabella might be seen as an instigator, though true to her word he’d never seen her actually starting anything. She just didn’t put as much effort into prevention.

He wondered if she had ever bet money on him. If she had, she’d probably lost it. 

Miss Florence was on her third week of back-to-back shifts. She had had two days and one night off so far, not consecutively, and even _her_ ironclad façade of calm was starting to crack. Wisps escaped her tightly coiled braid, and under her eyes were dark circles. She’d slept, but not for more than a few hours at a time in the back room, when there was someone else to tend the bar at night. It was beginning to show.

He’d known since her announcement that she was in for a rough adjustment period, but the reality was worse than he’d expected. Lack of sleep on this level was not something he usually associated with a job on land. In the Navy of course, there were far more opportunities for losing sleep than having it.

“I thought they were going to find someone to take your days,” he said one afternoon to Miss Florence. He had also spent most of his time in the _Bride_ , because he had quietly felt he had to keep an eye on her. Which was ridiculous, considering it was starkly obvious to him by now that she was the last person who needed someone to protect her. Still, he felt he owed her something, even if it was only his company.

She rolled her eyes. “Not many want a job like this. I don’t think Phillip is offering enough. He is—he’s worried about his money, because he needs to pay me more now.”

“That is hardly an excuse. You are running yourself ragged.”

She only smiled tiredly, and disappeared into the back the moment the other night shifter came in. He sat and nursed his glass.

Some nights later, when she emerged after a nap, she looked somehow worse than before. The circles under her eyes were more prominent, and her lips were pinched into a thin line. Still, she went to work with every sign of her usual skill. Now that she was there, the other bartender seemed content to let her move among the tables, sidling behind the bar and setting out drinks with the bare minimum of effort. He was a slight, smug-looking man that James had seen once or twice before and had taken an instant dislike to. Watching from his table in the corner, he felt even more annoyed by the man for so blatantly letting Miss Florence do all the heavy lifting.

“Who is that?” he asked her, when she brought him a fresh bottle. She glanced at the man behind the bar and rolled her eyes.

“Vincent,” she sighed.

“You can hardly let him get away with that,” he said. “Can you not fire him?”

She shrugged. “ _I_ cannot. And perhaps he will be more useful later.”

“I doubt that.”

His concern proved true, when a rather large group of men burst in sometime later, already carousing and joking, pockets jingling noticeably. Miss Florence directed them to a crowd of tables in the back, which had a number of people at them here and there, but they quickly cleared out when the larger group moved in. She spent the next few minutes ferrying armfuls of bottles, with Vincent only pulling them out from under the bar to hand to her.

James scowled and looked away. He hated that kind of incompetence and laziness. He vaguely hoped that she would tell him off, but that seemed unlikely. He stared at his drink instead, because at least it actually did something, even if it was mostly killing him.

He snapped back to reality a little later, as the new additions started their celebrations quite loudly behind him, and he growled. Pirates. Bloody, _bloody_ pirates—and he had no doubt that that was literally true. How much blood had they spilled to ‘earn’ the gold they were celebrating now?

As much as he hated to, he found himself glancing over his shoulder at the group quite a lot, through the magnetic force of hate. Eventually he switched seats to keep them in his line of sight, which he became gradually gladder of as the night wore on. Nothing distinguished them yet from normal revelers, aside from the sheer numbers of their group, but still…something about them made him feel uneasy. It didn’t help that Miss Florence alone was serving them, that Vincent or whoever being busily engaged in chatter with a pretty blonde at the bar. Useless.

Miss Florence passed his table then, wordlessly exchanging his empty bottle, and he glanced up. She looked terrible, tired and ragged, but more than that, she looked—tense. A sudden burst of apprehension gathered the scattered strands of him and knotted him back together in some semblance of sobriety. It was subtle, but he had never seen her look like that before, even on nights when the tavern seemed packed to the ceiling beams with rambunctious revelers.

Sitting up, he watched her take another round to the group in back. She served with her usual efficiency and smiled, but she was jumpy. Glancing around, it looked like the other clientele were leaving in twos and threes, apparently equally put-off by the group. Odd. These were people who could drink swinging from the railing while wild gunshots went off around them. That was a bad sign. Instinct was ringing alarm bells in his head, and he resolved himself to watch, leaving his new bottle untouched. It was the least he could do.

Part of him felt a little silly for it. Miss Florence could take care of herself; he’d had proof of it many times in the past. She’d once left a man curled on the ground with a crushed scrotum and two broken fingers. On top of that, she had the loyalty of the regulars, many of whom would be quick to jump to her aid if she were in any serious danger. But there were no regulars tonight…except him.

_Dear God_ , he thought. _I’m_ _a_ regular.

It had never occurred to him before, and now he desperately wished it hadn’t. He folded his arms and watched the back of the tavern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took Arabella from one of the young Jack Sparrow adventure books that I read as a kid, but I don't remember much about her so about the only things they have in common are the name and the fact that they both work at the Bride. Did anyone else read those books? I think I only did the first three or so, but they were fun.


	6. Tip Your Servers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific content warning for this chapter: sexual harassment, violence with blood and knives. LMK if I should add any tags! It's brief and I don't think it's any more graphic than anything in the movies but, just in case.

Flo took a moment to rub her eyes as she crouched behind the bar, ostensibly to grab more drinks. She hadn’t been this drained in—well frankly, she couldn’t remember. Probably not since her first days on the job, when everything was new and threatening, when she hadn’t known how to use alcohol as a shield, and every hand that was raised for service looked ready to strike…

Frowning, she shook her head and stood, squaring her shoulders. She wasn’t that same slip of a girl anymore, and hadn’t been for a long time. She had worked through worse than this. And of course, there was her double wages. Most of it she’d hidden at home, but she’d kept a few coins on her person, hidden in various little secret pockets. They almost felt like protective talismans, and fingering the one in her apron pocket made her feel a little better. Surely, this was worth it.

She went back to the big crew in back and had immediate Doubt. _Was it_ worth it? They were getting louder by the minute, jeering and catcalling every time they cried out for additional refreshment. They were getting handsier too, trying to take her hand or pinch her skirts with varying degrees of subtlety, though she often managed to dodge them. Often, but not always, and though she was used to it, each touch made her guts tighten. She looked for Vincent, hoping to hand off the group to him, at least for a little while, but he was nowhere to be seen.

She groaned internally. It was getting late. Surely they would leave to avail themselves of _other_ entertainments soon, the way Vincent apparently had?

She could only hope.

It took a few more hours, but eventually, James’s worries came true.

“Heyyyy! How about another round here, pretty lady?” called one of the crew, surprisingly coherently for being so well into his cups. Or bottles, in this case. Only the sheer volume and the skeevy boisterousness of his voice betrayed him. James saw a dark expression flit across Miss Florence’s features before she smiled serenely, gathering more drinks from the bar. She placed them on the table and attempted to leave but was stopped by an arm shooting around her waist. James nearly leapt from his seat then, but paused when he saw her unfazed smile.

“I heard Oriental girlies like you were easy,” the one who had grabbed her said. He had a filthy bandana around his head and was duly dubbed Bandana Man. Miss Florence cocked her head, looking pleasantly puzzled.

“’Easy’ to what?” she asked, with all the innocence of a child. He casually strolled over to a closer seat. Just in case.

The men around the table guffawed, slapping themselves or the table.

“Stick around an’ we’ll show ya,” he said, a hand creeping up her thigh. She trapped it under her own, still smiling.

“Ah, but then there would be no one to bring you rum,” she said knowingly.

“Wellll, maybe we’ve had enough of that for now. Maybe we want something new to play wiv?” Bandana Man said, his other hand now cupping her chest. A look of pure, unadulterated fury appeared and disappeared on her face like a flash of lightning, and he was certain there would be thunder to follow.

“So sorry, gentlemen, but I do not offer such services. But, next door, there are many fine ladies waiting for such handsome men as yourselves,” she said, her smile back in place, attempting to rise.

“Hear that lads? ‘Handsome men’ she says!” Bandana Man cackled, yanking her back onto his lap with a hint of viciousness. “Ahh, but there be no ladies so fine or interesting as you, sweetie!”

One of the other men, who looked much worse for wear, gave a ridiculous hoot. Miss Florence’s smile was slipping, and James cast his eye around for a weapon. Seeing no conveniently abandoned cutlasses or pistols, he decided a bar stool to the head was always an option.

“I am flattered,” she said loudly, a hand on the table, the other disappeared beneath it, “but I am afraid I am only of use for bringing drinks. I must work, please let go.”

“Hey, we could give you a new job!” one of the said, to sniggers.

“Actually, she’d be giving _us_ ‘jobs’,” said another, to raucous laughter. James’s lip curled in disgust. He had faith in her ability to extricate herself from such situations—God knew he’d seen her do it often enough—and he didn’t want to intervene unless it seemed necessary, but he couldn’t help but feel offended on her behalf. 

“No,” she said firmly, but still politely, as she stood. Bandana Man looked momentarily surprised that she had managed to escape his grasp, and she used that moment to step neatly out of reach. “I will serve you your drinks. If you wish for anything else of me, you must leave.”

“ _Leave?_ We’re payin’ customers, you little bitch, so you’ll do what we want, eh?” said a smaller, rat-like one in the back.

“Only drinks,” she insisted, her temper obviously starting to fray. She turned to leave, and suddenly ducked. He wondered why, until he saw a knife embedded in the ground, just a few feet past her. Anger coursed through him, sudden and hot, and he strode over, plucked it out of the ground. He approached the table, holding the knife up. Miss Florence was getting up, eyes pleading with him to sit back down, but he couldn’t tolerate this treatment of her any longer.

“Pardon me,” he said, with icy politeness. “It appears one of you dropped this.” She hovered at his shoulder, and he could feel the anxiety rolling off her in waves.

“What’s it to yeh?” barked the ratty one. From his guilty face to the way his companions shifted around him, he was the one who had thrown the knife.

“Are you the owner of this knife, sir?” he asked, still with that strained cordiality.

“So what if I am?”

“I just wanted to be certain it was returned to its owner.”

Ratty eyed him warily, then held out his hand. “Right, hand it over then.”

“With pleasure,” he said, and stabbed the knife between the man’s fingers, driving it into the table. Though he hadn’t cut the man, the sudden movement was enough to prompt a surprised yell.

The table exploded with movement then, clattering, clumsy, drunken movement, but most definitely violent in nature. Yet the tackle that came next was from behind him, not in front, and he found Miss Florence yanking him to the ground, just in time to avoid a massive fist that would have connected squarely with his ear otherwise. As it was, the swing took the puncher off-balance, and he tripped over James’s back, crashing into two of his companions.

Miss Florence crawled with commendable speed, considering her skirts, through the space vacated, and he followed, realizing that two against twenty was most definitely a losing proposition. When had he become so reckless?

A tug on his sleeve reminded him that this was no time to contemplate ethics and character. Miss Florence darted behind a table, and when she saw him join her, she upended it, creating a sort of barricade. Only then did she get to her feet, running low and weaving through the chairs and tables. He followed as best he could, stumbling a little, but their pursuers were hardly far behind. He saw one catch up to her by vaulting over a table, grabbing her shoulder, but she spun to meet the attacker, a flash of metal in her hand, and he heard a scream.

He had problems of his own, as someone tackled him to the ground. He kicked viciously and felt the heel of his right boot catch something that crunched, and he scrambled to his feet, a little woozy. Two men stood on either side of him, with another approaching down the middle. Taking only a microsecond to think, he grabbed the chair leg beside him and swung it in an arc into the man on the right, sending him crashing into his companion and creating a body barrier for the third to step over. Not that he got that far, because he got a face full of thrown chair for his trouble. James heard a yell of pain and felt something fall to the ground just inches from him, and turned to see Miss Florence standing behind him with a bloody knife in hand, breathing hard. A man was writhing on the ground between them, and she grabbed his wrist.

“Come on!” she shouted at him, pulling him roughly out of his surprise. He stumbled over the man on the ground, and he heard a gurgling yell as his foot sank into the man’s stomach. She did not hesitate, running towards the front door with James in tow. Two men had beat them to it, and four more were closing in behind. She yanked him forward towards the door, as she spun around to face the four. He might have protested, had the two men not been advancing on him. Balling his fists, he tried to remain aware of what was happening behind him even as he watched his current assailants. They were moving slow, easy, seeming more amused than anything. Neither of them had spoken during the exchange with Miss Florence, so it seemed they were more along for the ride than anything. Still, that didn’t mean they wouldn’t beat him to death, just for the fun of it.

Once they were in range, he waited for one to throw a punch, then ducked under it and headbutted the other in the stomach, while the first tripped over his back. After months in Tortuga, he’d started to get the hang of dirty fighting, but it was still far from intuitive. He’d been raised and trained on honor and fairness, which were words that had never so much as set foot on these shores, insofar as he was concerned. There hadn’t been much need for lawless fisticuffs with a sword and commission on his side.

He hauled the man he’d headbutted away from the door, throwing him into a table, which splintered dramatically, then kicked out the legs of the man who’d tried to punch him, leaving him sprawled on the ground. Then he turned to check on Miss Florence.

She was already coming towards him, eyes wide and lips pinched together. The four men were either rolling on the floor, clutching bleeding wounds, or were just groggily picking themselves up. This was all he had time to take in before she once again grabbed his wrist, and they burst out into the night.

It was unfortunately quiet on the street. With the moon about to set, most were either asleep, unconscious, or sluggish, though of course there were still a few revelers to provide cover. Just not as much as he would have liked. Miss Florence instantly jinked left, dragging him behind her until his legs got the message from his brain and started doing their job properly, following her as she ducked and weaved through people, horses, and carts. He had no idea where they were going and trusted her to know the streets around here better than he did anyway.

“Where—” he started, but she shushed him and pulled him into a different alley, not too far from the bar. She seemed to be slowing. “Are you sure—?”

“Shush!” she repeated, then rapped on a dingy door in a sequence that implied a code. After several moments, it opened.

“Flo?” a surprised voice demanded.

“Need to hide,” she replied tersely, stepping inside and tugging him in. “Give us a room.”

The person on the other side seemed to be barely more than a child, gangly and dark skinned, dressed in boy’s clothes. They nodded.

“The lily room is open,” they said. Miss Florence nodded gratefully and led him down the narrow hall they were in, then swiftly up the stairs and into the third room on the right.

“This is a brothel, isn’t it,” he said flatly as she locked the door behind them and lit the bedside lamp. If the smell, the scantily dressed women down in the foyer he had briefly glimpsed, and the gaudy décor hadn’t been enough to tip him off, the barely muffled moans and thuds emanating from either wall definitely clinched it. He wondered why she knew exactly where “the lily room” had been.

“Yes. Stay quiet. I do not think they would think to search here, but…well, better to be safe,” she murmured. She rubbed her eyes wearily.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

She sighed. “Yes. What were you thinking?”

He leaned back, surprised by the bite in her words. “What do you mean?”

“There was no need to attack them!”

“They were harassing you, and I _didn’t_ attack them. I was simply returning lost pro—” 

She actually _growled_ , cutting him off, which cued him into just how much trouble he was in. “I have been harassed many times! You have never stepped in before, and I have never needed you to! I may have yet been able to avoid—”

“He threw a _knife_ at you!” he snapped. “Or have you forgotten?”

She waved her arms, as if this fact were a mere fly at the dinner table. “I have had knives thrown at me before, too! If you had not _stabbed_ him, I could have—”

“I technically did _not_ stab him, Miss Florence, and what could you have done?” he demanded, angry now. “What do you imagine you could have done, Miss Florence? Those men were clearly not listening to reason!”

“I could have tricked them!” she protested, arms crossed. “Do you think I would still be alive in this pig-shit hellhole if I did not have plans for men with knives?”

The swearing threw him; he’d never heard her use language like that before. “What?”

“More rum usually works! And if not, talking usually does. Or I could have given them cards and forced them to gamble for me, that works too. I bring them more alcohol while they play, and usually they all pass out before they ever choose a winner. You did not need to do anything!”

He had never seen her so angry before, but not even the surprise could override his own anger. This was completely ridiculous.

“Just _how_ were you intending on getting them to play _cards_ after one of them _threw a knife at you?_ He was already ready to kill you! Do you expect me to sit idly by while someone murders you in front of my very eyes?”

“余計なお世話よ！” They shared a moment of surprise at the sudden Japanese, which she had evidently not intended, but her anger returned in a moment. “I could have handled myself. He missed on purpose!” she retorted, though he thought there was the barest hint of uncertainty there. “I could have made it a joke! Why _didn’t_ you stab him?”

This threw him. “What?”

“If you were so determined to help, why did you only pretend to stab him?” she said, the anger not gone but abruptly transmuted to something cooler. “It would have been smarter to get him out of the picture if you had to start a fight.”

His mouth fell slightly open at this criticism. He hadn’t really been thinking at all, he’d just…acted. Embarrassment danced with defiance and he simply said, “Because, whatever else I am, I am not _needlessly_ violent, Miss Florence.”

Snorting, she looked up at him, smile crooked and not at all friendly.

“It’s not needless. It would be needed to make survival more likely. If you were going to start it, you might as well do it right.”

“ _I_ was not the one who _started anything!_ ” he protested, feeling this was hugely unfair. She only glared. He returned it, seething at her—her— _ingratitude_. He had spent all night worried for her, had stayed alert and relatively sober to make sure she was safe, and he was pretty certain he’d saved her life—or at least, from being…taken advantage of, whatever she thought had been happening. Those men were not the type to be reasoned with or plied with silly distractions. They were violent men who could only understand violence, was it not obvious to her? He hadn’t done it to be thanked, but surely this was not the right reaction.

“Very well,” he said stiffly, after a long pause, “the next time a large group of vulgar and dangerous men tries to kill you, I will stay well out of your way.”

“Thank you,” she said, snippily, rubbing her eyes.

This somehow angered him more, and he added, “In fact, perhaps you would prefer I stayed out of your way permanently, since you have made it _abundantly_ clear you do not wish for my assistance or presence. Good night, Miss Florence.” He turned to the door and reached a hand for the knob, and hers shot out to wrap around his wrist.

“They will still be looking,” she said, her voice tight, “and we are both very recognizable.”

He looked to her hand, then over his shoulder at her face, which had changed from furious to deeply annoyed. He scowled.

“So? Do you propose we _hide_ here until morning? I thought you said you could handle yourself,” he sneered. It was needlessly petulant, part of him knew even as he spoke, but he couldn’t stop it.

She glared. “Not if someone starts a fight. I am good at keeping fights from happening. We have no choice. We will be safe here, for now.”

They continued to glare at each other for another long moment, then he slowly dropped his arm, turning away from the door. An instant before their gazes would have set something on fire, there was a knock.

“Flo, it’s Martha,” called a warm, soothing voice. Instantly Flo was past him and opened the door, revealing a tall woman with deep umber skin, dressed in red and gold, dark hair in an elaborate updo.

“Hello,” Miss Florence said with a relieved smile, moving back to let her in and shutting the door quietly. Then she stepped into the woman’s embrace. “Sorry to intrude like this.”

“It’s slow tonight,” she said, waving a hand. “What happened?” Her gaze drifted to James. “And who is this?” she asked, sounding mildly amused.

Miss Florence opened her mouth to respond, but he beat her to it. “My name is James Norrington.”

The woman raised an eyebrow, glancing quickly from him to Miss Florence, then held out a hand. “Alright, Mr. Norrington, I’m Martha Marsh. Call me Martha.”

“A pleasure,” he said, more out of habit than anything. The tension in the room was odd and uncomfortable, as he and Miss Florence avoided looking at each other. Martha seemed to take this in before turning to Miss Florence.

“What happened? Faith said it looked like you were in trouble.”

Miss Florence smiled a haggard smile. “Yes. I think a lot of people want to kill us.”

“Hmm. It’s been a while since that’s happened, hasn’t it?” she said mildly. “Who?”

“A lot of men who wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Miss Florence said simply, and she hesitated. “Can we hide here for the night?”

“Of course. If you can tell me what they looked like, I’ll have everyone keep an eye out.”

Together, they described to the best of their ability as many of the men as they could remember, though it wasn’t nearly all of them. It took some time, which was exacerbated by their excessive and somewhat icy politeness, each apologizing when they cut the other off and _insisting_ back and forth that the other speak first. They also recounted the conversation leading up to the fight and the fight itself, although it could be argued it was more of a flight. By the end, Miss Martha was shaking her head.

“Honestly, Flo, I don’t see you for ages and suddenly you fly in here with your _friend_ , more wanted than Sparrow himself,” she said with exasperated affection. He felt something tense in his gut at the mention of _that_ name, but forced himself not to show it. Miss Florence stifled a yawn.

“That seems to be the only way we get to meet,” she said. “Perhaps I should be chased by murderous men more often.”

“Please, just come for tea like a normal person.” She eyed Miss Florence critically. “You look like you’re about to drop. I’ll let you know if any of those men try to come in here. But I want a proper chat with both of you when this is over.” With that, she stood.

“Thank you, Martha.”

There was something infinitely soft in Miss Martha’s gaze then, as she said, “Of course. Nice to meet you, Mr. Norrington, I hope the next time we meet will be a little…” her gaze traversed the distance between him and Miss Florence, “…smoother.” And she left. After a moment, he cleared his throat.

“She seems to care for you very much,” he commented, for lack of anything else to say. Miss Florence smiled tiredly.

“And I care for her. She was my first friend here.” With a sigh, she sat on the edge of the bed, massaging her temples. Now that she was next to the lamp, he noticed that her hands and clothes were flecked with blood, and a smear on her skirt showed where she had wiped off the blade of her knife before putting it away…wherever she kept it. A combination of awe and terror rippled through him at the sight…maybe she _could_ have handled it herself.

But how could he have done nothing? He would never forgive himself. As the silence dragged on, he asked, “Is there water anywhere?”

She looked up, brow furrowed with confusion, then she nodded at the far corner, hidden in shadow. There was a rather large bucket there, as well as a smaller cup and some relatively clean towels. He wet one and offered it to her.

“You’re covered in blood,” he said bluntly, in response to her blank look. Glancing at her hand, she grimaced and accepted the towel.

“…Thank you,” she said, as she wiped, voice quiet and suddenly very, very tired.

“You’re welcome.” He stood, awkwardly, uncertain what to do now. He was still annoyed with her, but she had a point about being recognizable. Though caked in mud and filth, his Navy uniform was still the only full uniform about, and the wig in particular would be a giveaway. He could have gotten rid of it, but…at this point, it would be like amputating a limb. Even though it was festering and had no hope of salvage, he wanted to keep it.

She patted the space beside her as she wiped her face, and reluctantly, he sat.

“You were not hurt?” she asked after a moment. He glanced down at himself, just to make sure adrenaline hadn’t hidden anything from him. Miraculously, he didn’t seem to hurt anywhere very much. There was some residual soreness in his arms and legs from tumbling and kicking, but they would fade by morning.

“I seem to be intact,” he said, and she smiled wanly.

“I’m glad of that.” She paused, putting the towel down in her lap. “…I’m sorry.”

“What?” he blurted, unsure of what he’d heard. She sighed quietly and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you. I know you only wanted to protect me. I have just been…so tired,” she said, sounding more defeated than he had ever heard her. It was alarming. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I—” he started, suddenly feeling a heel. She looked so small, hunched and weary. “I…you are right that I acted rashly, even if—”

She pressed a finger to his lips, which surprised him so much he briefly felt like his soul had evacuated his body. He hardly dared breathe.

“No, it was…unfair for me to be angry. I was frustrated and frightened. I should not have taken it out on you. You saved me.” She took the finger away, and just when he thought he was allowed to breathe again, she leaned her head on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“You…you’re welcome,” he stuttered, frozen in place. It wasn’t so much the physical contact, although that wasn’t helping, but how…vulnerable she seemed. Miss Florence was never vulnerable, she was always…there. Solid. Reliable. Perfectly self-sufficient. This was like a rock suddenly sprouting facial features and weeping. His mind raced to extricate themselves from this weird emotional cul-de-sac. “Though I doubt how accurate it is to say that I saved you. You likely could have escaped there faster without me.” Images of collapsed bodies flashed through his mind. “You are…terrifying with a knife.”

She laughed, suddenly, warmly, and with genuine delight.

“That is the most satisfying compliment I have ever been given,” she said, patting his knee. “Thank you.”

“You’ve thanked me enough for one night,” he said, growing uncomfortable again. But before true awkwardness could take hold, she kicked off her boots and rolled herself onto the other side of the bed. He felt the loss of her warmth as keenly as the loss of a limb, and was appalled at the corner of himself that wanted to pull her back.

“In the morning, I will be in big trouble for leaving the bar unattended,” she announced, as though she were announcing normal plans for the day. “So I am going to take this opportunity to sleep in a real bed. You can have that half.” And with that, she pulled the blankets over herself. He stared, incredulous.

“I—we can’t—it wouldn’t be proper for me to—” he spluttered, his heart pounding faster than it had when he had been faced with twenty armed adversaries just half an hour ago. She laughed again, sounding free, almost like an entirely different person.

“I would like to remind you that you have seen me in nothing but a wet robe—”

“ _You would?_ ”

“—and you did not take advantage of me then,” she finished, with a twinkle in her eyes that might have been lamplight or mischief. Probably both. “I trust you. Go to sleep, Mr. James. It must have been a long time since you have been in a bed, also. If you must take advantage of anything, take that.”

His mouth had fallen open, he realized, and he hastily shut it as she turned over to face the wall. Of course, he _didn’t_ have any such inclinations for Miss Florence—for a number of reasons, including the fact that she could and would blind him if he tried; he still needed her for food and, frankly, company; and not least the fact that he could barely even skirt the edges of the idea of such an act of intimacy without Elizabeth’s impish smile lashing him with a fiery ninetails—but there was such a thing as _propriety_. This was exactly why he hadn’t accepted her offer to stay the night in her home.

Wait a moment.

“You trust me?” he said, suspiciously. She rolled back over to look at him.

“Yes, Mr. James. I do. Now hush. I am fucking tired.” And with that, she rolled over again and pulled the blanket over her head with a note of finality. He blinked several times before shaking his head slightly.

_Fair enough_ , he thought. Then he sighed, deeply and with a not-inconsiderable amount of trepidation, taking off his shoes. His hat and wig were laid on the bedside table, and he took a moment to steel himself. Carefully, he lowered himself into his half of the bed. It was quite a large one, and there was at least a pillow’s worth of room between them. Still, he decided to make that division a little clearer, laying the third pillow between them like a cushy barricade. It didn’t make him feel much better, but some of the tension left his limbs, and he stared up at the ceiling.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept in a bed. Well, actually, that was wrong—he couldn’t remember the last time he had really _appreciated_ sleeping in a bed. He was determined to savor it, even though the muffled thumping and moaning and—oh good _grief_ —begging he could hear through the walls was…distracting. Miss Florence was apparently already asleep, snoring softly. He wondered if the noise would hinder his ability to sleep.

Less than ten minutes later, he stopped wondering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flo says something that roughly means, "It's none of your business," in Japanese, though in this instance you could also translate it as "I don't need your help." (Literal translation might be something like: "That's excessive help.") 
> 
> I think this might be the tamest and most unceremonious "there was only one bed" scene ever written in fanfiction lol
> 
> I was pretty pleased with this chapter when I first wrote it, then I was filled with Doubt, and now I'm somewhere in between. The rest of the story is being...uncooperative right now. Hopefully it'll sort itself out by next month's update. 
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving! Stay safe everyone <3


	7. Aftermass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it still Christmas in some time zone somewhere? Maybe for a few seconds if I hurry. Happy holidays, regardless, and happy new year!

Flo woke with a start, briefly disoriented by the strange smell and feel of her surroundings. Then, as her eyes adjusted to the sunlight that snuck in past the thick curtains, she remembered, and jolted upright.

She scrambled to the window and peeked out. It must be at least noon. _Noon._ Phillip would _kill_ her if he found out she’d left the _Bride_ unattended for so long. She could only hope that no one had torched the place.

She glanced at Mr. James, gently snoring on his side of the bed, one arm hooked around a pillow in the middle of the bed. She hated to wake him; sleeping in a proper bed was a luxury she doubted he would see very often. But neither could she just leave him here, and a large part of her didn’t want to. Actually, a large part of her wanted to crawl right back into bed and sleep for the next week, but that wasn’t going to be an option if she didn’t want to lose her job. The bloodstains on her apron barely showed now, faded into brown, mingling almost seamlessly with the other, more innocent stains already there.

Possibly Phillip would be reasonable, if she was allowed to explain. He wasn’t, generally, a violent man, not to mention she was quite valuable to him, and what with the recent problems with staffing it was unlikely that she would be outright fired…but there was the distinct possibility that their attackers had gone back to trash and/or loot the place, so she wasn’t sure what to expect. Hopefully those men were back on whatever ship they’d sailed in on, and she wouldn’t have to worry.

With a sigh, she sat on her side of the bed, feeling a weariness she didn’t often indulge in welling up from her soul. This wasn’t physical exhaustion, although she had plenty of that too, it was mental. Emotional. It had been a long time since she’d had to actually _run_ from anyone. She’d forgotten that flashing, vibrating intensity that was the fear of being murdered.

She thought of the men she’d stabbed and wondered if any had died. She’d killed before, always in self-defense, and almost always because they’d bled out and not because she’d stuck around to finish the job. Because of that, she wasn’t entirely sure of the _exact_ number of deaths she was actually responsible for. No one was innocent in Tortuga. Not for long.

_She was young, freshly abandoned, barely able to speak three words of English, though she could parse most of what she heard. She was getting looks, and sometimes attempts at conversation, but she ran away. Who knew if they were truly friendly or not? How could she tell, in this land of foreigners and cruelty?_

_She’d already seen plenty of evidence of that cruelty, and she didn’t intend to be victim of it. Not yet. Not ever, if she could help it._

_But every day and especially every night was a game of hide and seek, high-stakes and all risk, no reward but the promise of another day to do it again. She scuttled. She thieved. She contorted herself into spaces no one should be able to fit into in the name of keeping herself safe from grabby, angry hands._

_Then there was an alley, so narrow and dark she was certain she was the only one there. The only one who could fit._

_But no. The cruelty struck, and that time, it had won._

“Are you alright?” Mr. James's voice cut through her dark reminiscing, and she jerked up to meet his gaze. She smiled. It came easily.

“Yes. And you?”

He grunted, sitting up reluctantly. “I wouldn’t object to a few more hours,” he admitted.

“Neither would I,” she agreed. “But…I need to make sure I still have a job.”

He instantly seemed more alert. “I’ll come with you.”

Her lips quirked upwards at his sudden change in demeanor. “I’m certain those men have already gone back to their ship,” she said, even though she was most definitely not.

“You can hardly be sure of that,” he said firmly, calling her bluff and throwing off the blankets to tug on his boots. She smiled and retrieved her own shoes, and had just gotten them on when there was a knock at the door.

“Flo? Awake yet?” came Martha’s muffled voice. Exchanging glances, Flo went to open the door.

“Good morning,” she said, and was immediately pushed aside by a large tray of food.

“Finally, I’ve tried to check on you three times now,” she said, unceremoniously sweeping James’s things from the bedside table and setting the tray on it instead. “It’s not like you to sleep in.”

Flo shrugged. “I was tired.”

“Hm, well, I suppose you had a trying night.” She turned to Mr. James and smiled. “Sleep well, Mr. Norrington?”

It seemed to Flo that it took just a fraction of a moment too long for his eyes to tear themselves away from the tray and focus on conversation, and she held back a grin. Grabbing a roll of bread, she placed one in his hand while he and Martha exchanged pleasantries.

“So I’ve had a sniff around,” she announced, pouring them all tea. “Seems like the men you upset were off of the _Sea Glory_. They’re in for some extensive repairs, so it’s likely they’ll be here for a while.”

Flo frowned. “How long?”

“I’m not sure. A few weeks, probably.”

“That is bad.”

“What can we do?” asked Mr. James, sounding perfectly calm. She glanced at him, surprised. She’d expected some resignation, at least, but perhaps that was his inner officer speaking.

Martha shrugged. “My advice? Hide out here for a while, at least until the _Glory_ leaves.”

Flo shook her head. “Too close. If they cannot find us at the _Bride_ , they will start looking elsewhere.”

“You can’t be sure they’ll bother,” Martha pointed out.

“Can’t be sure they won’t,” she countered. “They will have time, and be bored.”

“What about your home?” Mr. James said. “It seems secluded enough.”

She considered it. She’d picked the place for its relative obscurity, but it was still only a twenty minute walk from the town proper. There had been nights, not frequent, but not unheard of, when drunk shenanigans and secret meetings had happened not fifteen feet from her door, just past the screen of trees. And there was always the slim but niggling possibility that Arabella would give them instructions if asked, though she was generally a sound judge of character.

And of course, it was essentially one small rectangle, forcibly bifurcated to make two very small rooms. A night or two would be fine, perhaps, but a few weeks? She wasn’t sure she wanted to test their tentative friendship like that. Of course, they’d both had experience living on ships, where quarters were even smaller, but that didn’t mean she was particularly eager to do it again.

“Still too close, and if they did find us there would be nowhere to run.” Somewhere out of the way, where they could breathe…she thought for a moment, then sighed. “I think I should take him home.”

Martha eyed her briefly, then nodded. “I think you’re right. I’ll tell Phillip what’s happening, shall I?”

“Don’t tell him where we went. And please tell him sorry,” she said, even as guilt began to churn in her gut.

“I will, but don’t worry. I won’t let him fire you.” Martha smiled as she said it, but there was steel in her eyes. “I can send you word when it’s safe?”

“Thank you.”

“’Home’?” Mr. James asked.

Flo smiled wryly. “Congratulations, Mr. James. You get to hear more of my story.”

After their breakfast, which, given the time was also their lunch, Flo and Mr. James snuck out of the side door after bidding Martha goodbye. She had pressed a hastily prepared basket full of various provisions covered over with cloth into Flo’s hands.

“Give my regards,” Martha said, and Flo nodded.

“Where are we—” he started, but she hushed him with a raised finger, watching the people passing by the entrance to the alley. No one seemed familiar and no one looked their way, for the moment.

“People listen,” she warned, and he seemed to get the message. Straightening her back and putting on her most placid expression, she walked out of the alley, on the opposite side from where they had entered so frantically last night. This led them to a different street, somewhat wider. There were people here, but most seemed occupied with their own affairs. Still, she kept a watchful eye, as did he.

Staying as close to the buildings as possible without looking like they were slinking, she led them up the street, turning right at the end and into a set of winding alleys and unevenly placed low-stone walls, some of which she stepped over. This area was completely deserted, and the sudden silence was somewhat disconcerting.

After a few more minutes, the alleys deposited them onto a slightly larger dirt lane, leading vaguely uphill through overgrown grass and wildflowers. Tree stumps dotted the hill here and there, and the occasional bush further broke up the panorama, but besides that, it was mainly featureless. The lane curved behind the hill, taking them out of sight of the town as well as upwards. It was only once all the buildings were hidden that she let herself relax somewhat.

“May I speak now?” Mr. James asked dryly behind her. She flashed him a smile over her shoulder.

“Yes.”

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe,” she replied, glancing over her shoulder.

“Determined to keep me in suspense, I see,” he said, and she grinned.

“It will be easier to explain when you see. And it’s more…” She frowned, casting for the word. “…exciting? Fancy? What is it…”

“Dramatic?”

“ _Yes_ , that one. Let me be dramatic.”

“I would have thought last night was drama enough,” he quipped, and the clarity of his voice made her smile. It was good to see him sober, and he was funnier. Well, that wasn’t the right word either, he could still be _funny_ when he was drunk, though it was usually much less intentional. He was quicker, and she found it interesting. There weren’t many around her that wielded dry cynicism quite the way he did, in fact no one did. They tended to be more straightforward, being either blatantly kind and jovial or unapologetically mean and bad-tempered. There wasn’t much room for witticisms and word play with everyone’s tongues being numbed with rum. Some of the pirate lords were quite clever, though; Jack Sparrow almost never shut up, of course, and Barbossa had always been sharp, be his words kind or cruel. She’d never been able to engage in much verbal sparring before, but had silently admired the way they could twist their words to show different things, depending on which way you looked at them. It was a proficiency she’d longed for, and felt just a bit closer to attaining now. 

They were high enough now that it afforded them a pleasant view of the ocean. She pointed it out to him as a distraction. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

He looked over for a few moments. “I suppose,” he conceded.

“Sunset is best,” she said, as the path curved into some trees, and then a crumbling stone wall.

“Is that…a church?” he asked, as they passed through the gateless entrance. A squat stone building with a bell-less bell tower sat huddled under a few towering trees, like a toad. Even from a distance it looked abandoned, dry and crumbling here and there. Rocks, wooden posts, and a few proper headstones dotted the path to either side, though not too many. They all looked old, but the grass immediately around them was well kept.

“Surprise,” she said with a wry grin.

They reached the front door, which was somewhat taller and wider than a normal door, but that was the only grandeur it pretended at. She knocked, banging on it quite hard, because she knew she wouldn’t be heard otherwise.

After a full minute, she heard familiar footsteps on the other side come closer, then pause. She knocked again, more gently.

“Sanctuary for two troublemakers?” she called through the wood, and immediately the door was pulled open, revealing an old man with graying brown hair and twinkling eyes.

“Flo, dear child!” he greeted, throwing open his arms.

“Hello, Father Julian,” she said, stepping into the embrace. 

James had to admit, he hadn’t expected to find a church here. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised, seeing as spreading the word of God was as popular as it ever was, even and especially out here in the colonies. Religion was brought to these new lands in the same way as goats and chickens were, and could apparently also be abandoned to the wild.

Father Julian ushered them inside, the thick wooden door closing with a solid _thump_ , plunging the room into gloom. He blinked rapidly, trying to get his sight back.

“This is Mr. James Norrington,” Miss Florence introduced, and he offered a hand.

“A pleasure,” he said, once more out of habit than because he had a good grasp of what was going on. Father Julian took the hand in both of his.

“Welcome. Any friend of Florence’s is a friend of mine,” he said, with such open acceptance that James might have suspected a trick. “What brings you home, after all this time, my child?” he added, turning to Miss Florence. She flashed a sheepish smile.

“Ah…I am afraid we will need to hide here for a few days,” she said. “There was a…misunderstanding, and now some men are trying to kill us.” Father Julian sighed, though there was affection in it.

“Of course. Why do I never see you unless you are in mortal peril, dear one?”

She grinned. “When else would I need the protection of God?”

“Perhaps if you came back more for guidance, you would need less protection.”

She waved a hand. “Is my room still open?”

“Of course.”

They made their way to the hallway that ran along the right side of the pews, stone arches crumbling, the smell of mildew like a faint, irritating dissonance in the air. At the end of the hall, they turned left, and Miss Florence opened the second door down. Though weathered, it looked to be in much better condition than the doors to either side, the wood of the one on the left all but crumbling at the base. Inside, there was a small room with a cot and a spare desk, as well as an empty candle holder. A small and distinctly homemade bookshelf sat at the end of the cot, and a few books sagged there haphazardly.

At the sight, she had gone unusually still, but almost immediately snapped out of it.

“All the same,” she remarked. “Except for dust.”

Father Julian shrugged, smiling.

“I am an old man, dear,” he said airily, and there was something in the tilt of his head and the way he said the words that reminded James of Miss Florence. “Your friend can stay in the hospital,” the man added, somewhat alarmingly.

“The room next door. He treats people sometimes,” Miss Florence translated.

“I see,” he said with mild relief, as they filed next door, thankfully to the somewhat more intact door. It looked much the same as Miss Florence’s room, albeit a little less dusty and without the bookshelf. Instead there was a small cabinet, which looked like a miniature apothecary.

“My apologies for the dust. This is the sick room, and that it is not often used is a blessing.”

“I almost died here,” Miss Florence said from the door, sounding rather cheerful about it. Father Julian sent her a fond but exasperated look.

“Many times, you reckless child,” he said, shaking a finger at her.

“If I may ask,” James said, unable to wait any longer, “how do you know each other?”

They exchanged glances, and he read there the stories of many years.

“Father Julian took me in when I…first arrived,” she said, with an odd smile. “He taught me English. To read and write.”

“She was a very quick study, although I see your accent has improved since you’ve been away!”

Miss Florence smiled and bowed to James, who felt increasingly like an intruder at a family reunion. There was the faintest note of tension, though, and he could tell that she was putting effort into speaking her very best. “I owe it to my tutor.”

A look of understanding passed Father Julian’s face, and some small, subtle part of him seemed to relax.

“Then I must thank you, sir, for teaching her what I could not,” he said, and though his smile was jovial, there was a small note of sadness in his voice. The weight of words unspoken seemed to fill the room, and they were heavy as an anchor.

“I assure you, I owe her far more than she owes me. She has kept me alive since my…arrival here.”

A smile crinkled the corners of Father Julian’s eyes. “That sounds like my Florence. Have you eaten? Perhaps we can catch up over lunch?”

Though they had eaten, they joined Father Julian in the kitchen. Miss Florence showed him the provisions given by Martha and set about putting them away, while he made lunch. It was a surprisingly hearty affair, with bread, cheese, and the remains of some chicken soup. A faint clucking drifting into the kitchen where they ate told James where the chicken had come from, and he gratefully sipped the small portion he had been given. He wasn’t very hungry yet, but he’d learned to take food when he could get it, back in the Navy. The lesson had only been reinforced with his time on Tortuga.

Father Julian received a briefing of the current situation, and then an overview of the past few months. Miss Florence did most of the talking, but he chimed in as well, and Father Julian seemed to make a point of asking him the clarifying questions, seemingly determined to hear both sides.

It was…strange, how normal it all was. As though they hadn’t spent last night fighting for their lives and sharing a bed. As though he wasn’t a disgraced naval officer well on his way to becoming useless alcoholic gutter trash. As though this wasn’t a dilapidated church on an island of rogues.

“You should beat out the bedding before it gets dark,” Father Julian was saying. “I’m afraid it has been sometime…”

“I will,” Miss Florence said.

_“Elizabeth, do remember to attend your lessons after lunch,” Governor Swann said, with a fond but stern look._

_“Yes father,” young Elizabeth said, with a roll of her eyes._

James bit into some bread to hide his scowl. Why he had remembered that just now was a mystery to him and he did not appreciate the stab of nostalgic agony that accompanied it.

“How did you meet?” he asked, just to get his mind off of the past. Or at least, _his_ past.

“Martha saved me from an attack, not long after I arrived,” Miss Florence said, with the faintest inflection on _arrived_ that made it seem that she had a different word in mind. “I was hurt, and she brought me to Father Julian.”

“You didn’t say a word for two weeks,” Father Julian commented mildly. “Martha had told me you seemed to understand English, but I was beginning to doubt it.”

“I didn’t understand everything,” she admitted.

“Certainly more than you let on,” he said. “I still remember the first time you spoke to me.”

“What did she say?” James asked, curious.

Father Julian smiled in fond recollection, folding his hands in his lap as he finished his meal. “It was ‘thank you’, after I brought her a cup of water in the night.” He said it with such tenderness, staring into the heart of memory, that James felt awkward, and he could see the same in Miss Florence. She cleared her throat and began gathering empty plates.

“I will wash up,” she said, and quickly walked out of the room, presumably to a well. For a moment, he felt even more awkward, until he realized that this would be a prime opportunity to find out a little more about her past.

“How old was she when she came to you?” he asked, and the old man blinked himself back to the present.

“Oh, she was certainly no more than fourteen,” he said.

“Did she ever tell you how she came to be here?”

Father Julian fixed him with a knowing look. “She won’t tell you, will she?”

“No, she hardly ever elaborates about herself.” He couldn’t help the exasperation that slipped into his tone.

“Well, then it would hardly be my place to tell it all for her. But I suppose I could tell you that she usually says she was shipwrecked, and the crew that rescued her left her here. Ask her, if you wish to know the particulars. She will tell you when she is ready, although I confess it is possible that that will take some time.”

“So I’ve noticed,” he said wryly. “She once told me that she considers the past to be gone and done, and so she never speaks of it.”

Father Julian chuckled. “I’m sure that is what she would like to believe. She is very good at walling away what hurts her and putting on a brave face. I imagine it was the only way for her to cope.”

James tried to picture a fourteen-year-old Miss Florence, abandoned, scared, and hurt. He couldn’t quite manage it. By and large, ‘unflappable’ was the word that he would have put to her, at least up until recent events. Their argument last night had been the first time he had ever seen her so emotional, but somehow it only served to highlight her usual calm. After all, she’d been under quite a lot of stress already, and anyone had the right to be a little out of sorts after running for their life. But Father Julian’s words gave that calm some texture, a little background, and he wondered how much of it was a façade.

“And what of you, my son? How will you cope?”

The question broke in on his thoughts like a wave over a half-finished sandcastle. _Cope?_

“If you seek the honest truth sir,” he said haltingly, “’coping’ is not something I have managed as yet.”

“So it would seem,” he replied, sounding quietly amused. “But we all find our way, eventually.” He patted James on the shoulder consolingly, and while he might have found it insulting from someone else, he actually managed to find a little comfort in the gesture from the old man.

“And what of yourself, Father? How did you come to be here?”

“Ah, that is very simple. I wanted to,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “In the Old World, you cannot go five minutes without a war, or church schism, or some other disturbance. Here, it is only me.”

James stared at the man. “So, in essence, you came to be a hermit?”

Father Julian chuckled again. “In essence. But I also felt certain that I would find more souls to help here.”

“Like Miss Florence?”

“Like Florence, yes. I’m surprised she lets you be so formal with her. She hates titles,” he said, changing the subject as smoothly as stepping through a doorway.

“We made…an arrangement. I will only call her Flo after she tells me her real name.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Good luck.”

The bluntness threw him off. “I beg your pardon?”

“Not even _I_ know her real name. To my knowledge, no one on this island knows it but her. Sometimes I wonder if she even remembers it.” His expression grew thoughtful. “…Let me know if she ever does tell you. You need not tell me the name, but just if she has said. I’d like to know if she'll ever tell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh look a chapter that ends not on someone going to sleep lol


	8. Cleanliness, Godliness, etc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new president month folks

After washing up, Flo had Mr. James help her carry the bedding outside, hanging them over a low stone wall, where she commenced beating them with perhaps slightly more aggression than strictly necessary.

“I had no idea you hated blankets so much,” Mr. James said dryly, raising his voice somewhat to be heard over the noise. He had offered to take the stick, which was actually a broom, but she had turned him down. She chuckled, immediately regretting it as it turned into a cough.

“It has been a hard few weeks,” she said simply.

After a few minutes, he asked, “Are you certain we won’t be found here?”

“Look around,” she said, sweeping an arm around the hilltop. “No one comes here. Almost no one in town knows of here, or if they do, they think it is haunted. Father Julian almost never goes to town himself. They think he is a ghost.”

“I see.” He paused, apparently debating whether to go on. “Father Julian said you were shipwrecked, and your rescuers left you here,” he said quietly, and she slowly lowered the broomstick.

“Yes,” she said baldly, hoping it would halt any further inquiry. “And here I am.” She hoped Father Julian had not elaborated further.

“Could they not take you home?”

“Why would they go so far for one little girl who cannot give them anything? And I told you, I cannot go home. Why do you insist—” Biting her lip, she turned away. How could she tell him not to ask about her past, when she had shamelessly done the same to him? He had told her his troubles, it was only natural that he want to know hers. But what could she say?

_“Hang on, that’s just a girl! Just a girl, right? No need for that.”_

_“Captain said no quarter!”_

_“Yeah, but, he never said nuffin ‘bout girls.”_

_“An’ you wanna go ask ‘im?”_

_“Well, I mean, just a girl…come on, if he says no, we kill her after, where’s the harm?”_

_“Fine, but_ you’re _doin’ the asking!”_

After all these years, that day was largely a blur, with vivid flashes of little moments. Funny that that conversation should be one of them, playing in her mind as clearly as though they were there in front of her again…

But she couldn’t say that. To talk about it would mean to know it and to live it again, to accept it, and accepting the images that had burned into her that day would be _—_

She understood his hate for pirates, she really did. She’d held something of the same for a little while, but she’d…acclimated. Martha and Father Julian had helped. What else could she do? At least they hadn’t killed her. At least they hadn’t hurt her physically. At least—

Her silence had apparently gone on a little too long, because he interrupted the tide of welling panic in her with, “I apologize, Miss Florence, I—”

“It’s fine,” she said, closing her eyes. His voice had reminded her who she was meant to be right now, and she smiled, determined to lie to him.

But, when she turned to face him, the smile melted into a tight-lipped line. He was staring at her with an intense solemnity, as though he’d guessed at the turmoil in her mind. In the afternoon light his eyes were pale and bright, like a winter sky, something she hadn’t experienced in some years now. She felt compelled to take his hand, dropping the broom in the process.

“Mr. James Norrington,” she said, feeling the callouses of his palm. “Please. I…will tell you all about that if you really want to know, one day. I promise it. But please…wait.”

He watched her a moment longer, eyes searching her face, then he said, very gently, “As you wish.”

He cut a fine figure in that moment, almost tender, without the stormy furrow of repressed anger in his brow or the bleary redness of drink in his expression. Fascinated by this sudden glimpse into the man he must have been before, she held his gaze and his hand just a moment too long, and hastily stepped back.

“Thank you.” And she picked up the broom to carry on, but her pace was flagging. Memories, long buried, were trying to make themselves known, and it was throwing off her rhythm. It must have been the stress she’d been under recently, and perhaps being back with Father Julian.

“Let me.” He took the broom from her, and she sat silently in the grass, watching him shrug out of his coat and going to work. With a great force of will, she pulled her thoughts out of the past and firmly into the present, pouring her focus into watching the swing of his arms, the way his clothes bunched and pulled at the action. It was repetitive and oddly soothing, but she soon noticed something else…

“You should borrow one of Father Julian’s robes and let me launder your clothes,” she said. He gave a noncommittal grunt, which she took to be an acquiesce. “You will feel much better.”

He might have nodded, or it might have been an incidental movement as he hit the blanket again. She brightened as she remembered something else.

“We could have a bath,” she said, feeling her spirits rise at the mere thought.

His swing stuttered a little and he glanced at her over his shoulder. “’We’?”

She waved a hand. “Not together. I mean it will take many buckets to fill the tub, so it would go faster with two.” She paused, and decided a little teasing to lighten the mood would do both of them good. “Although it’s very common for men and women to bathe together in Japan.” She accompanied the statement with a sweet smile.

It had the effect she had imagined it would. He paused, staring at her incredulously. “Do you mean…married couples, or—”

“Strangers. In the public baths,” she said nonchalantly. She’d never questioned it as a child, but she did find it a little odd now, having spent so much time with Westerners. In fact she didn’t remember much about them, aside from how nice the hot water had been, but it was worth it to see the blush creep across his face.

“I…see,” he mumbled eventually. He seemed to be torn between confusion, curiosity, and abject embarrassment, and eventually settled on gruff acceptance. “Cultural differences, I suppose.”

“That is a smart answer.” She sighed. “I might risk going back, if I were guaranteed a…” She snapped her fingers, scowling as she searched for the term, “…hot spring bath.”

“…I suppose I would not object to a bath,” he said, and she grinned.

“Tomorrow, then.” Shaking her head, she added, “It took a long time to translate _hot springs_. You people are so strange about bathing.”

He opened his mouth, presumably to object, then glanced down at himself and paused. “I doubt the company of pirates has provided you the best examples on the matter.”

“You are right.”

That night, James lay on the small cot in the church sick room, and was uncertain what to think of the situation.

On the one hand, he did appreciate the bed, and the roof, and the food. Such simple things, but he knew better than to take them for granted by now. Dinner had been roast chicken and wine, with some onion and carrots. A real, proper meal. Much of the ingredients had been provided by Miss Martha, who apparently often sent provisions up for the reclusive Father Julian. He had done most of the cooking, with Miss Florence and James doing whatever small tasks assigned to them.

“I am not allowed to cook here,” she had confided to him. “I almost burnt it down.”

“When was that?”

“Twelve years ago,” Father Julian said, from his position at the stove. “All to chase a _parrot_.”

“It could talk,” she argued. “I thought it was a messenger.”

“Or a devil sent to cause mischief,” he retorted, though he was smiling.

In little ways like this, James did learn something of Miss Florence’s past, bits and pieces of her youth. They formed only a small part of the picture, but they were enough to imply a shape, and dispel the idea that she had sprung, fully formed, from the bar of the _Bride._ They also sounded largely happy, and he wondered why she didn’t still live with Father Julian. There was no hint of a quarrel between them, in fact he couldn’t imagine that they ever had quarreled. Why live in a tiny hut in the woods, alone? Perhaps he could ask…

“ _But please…wait.”_

He frowned, recalling their conversation from the afternoon. In the moment before she had spoken, she had looked so…lost. It was a look he saw often, staring back at him from the bottom of a glass. He was fairly certain that “shipwrecked” probably didn’t cover all of it.

But he had promised not to pry until she was ready. He owed her that much.

A spiderweb of thin cracks ran through the stone of the ceiling, and he traced their lines as he thought. Had the barfight been just last night? It felt like a week ago. How long would they need to be in hiding?

He’d never been in hiding before. Hidden, waiting to ambush an unsuspecting pirate ship, perhaps, but never _in hiding_ , like some…common fugitive. Which was unfair, because he hadn’t really done anything wrong. Or at least, he had done it in defense.

He sighed. Sleep had come easily last night, but seemed determined to elude him today. he wanted a drink, and hated himself for wanting. After ten more fruitless minutes of tossing and turning, he rolled out of the cot and lit the candle he had been given. By its light, he pulled on his boots and stepped out into the corridor, with the vague idea of exploring, though there seemed to be little enough to see.

His footsteps echoed a little in the stone halls, and he could hear faint whistling and moaning through the building. Probably wind through the cracks in the walls, of which there were many. It was a wonder the roof hadn’t caved in yet. He wondered who had built this church, and when, and why it had been allowed to fall to ruin.

Making his way into the main hall, he found himself standing at the front of the room. The candlelight only served to highlight the darkness, so it took him a while to realize there was a figure sitting on one of the foremost benches. A brief jolt of surprise gripped his sternum uncomfortably, until he looked a little closer and realized that it was Father Julian.

“Good evening,” the old man said, nodding without looking up. “Insomniac, are you?”

Relieved, but not admitting it to himself, he shrugged. “It seems that way tonight. I might ask the same of you, Father.”

“Sit.” He patted the space beside him on the bench, and reluctantly, James sat. “Are you a religious man, Mr. Norrington?”

He considered the question. “Perhaps not as much as I ought to be.” That was where he intended to stop, but his mouth continued, “My mother was, and she was always sure to bring me along.” The words brought with them stark memories that burned like sunlight tearing into a vampire’s coffin. How long had it been since he’d thought of his mother?

_A warm hand, a soft voice, “Come along, James dear, or we’ll be late.”_

It was some moments before his jaw unclenched enough for him to continue. “I’m afraid I did not have much time for church after joining the Navy.”

“Yes, that’s often the way…”

Silence fell, and when it was clear he didn’t intend to continue, James asked, “Why doesn’t Miss Florence live with you?”

It was difficult to tell in the flickering candlelight, but Father Julian’s smile seemed tinged with sadness.

“Many reasons, I imagine. She stayed with me for a few years, after Martha brought her. I helped her learn to speak English, although it was less the language she needed help with and simply context, and confidence. She’s a very bright girl. After the first year, Martha helped her get the job at the _Bride_ , although I objected at the time. I did not think it was an environment for someone like her to be in, not at that age. But she proved me wrong, as she tends to.” He paused for a moment, staring up at the roof, though the darkness was too thick for anything much to be seen beyond their little sphere of light. “I believe it made her uncomfortable, to be reliant on my help. As soon as she felt able, she declared her intention to find a place to live closer to town, and before I knew it she’d built a cottage in the forest and was bidding me and this old church goodbye. I suppose she’d grown up. She was seventeen, then.”

Seventeen. That was when he’d first joined the Navy. The early days had been the most difficult, of course. Leaving behind everything he had known until then, his home, his friends…his mother’s grave. Two weeks after her funeral had seen him on the deck of the _HMS Intrepid_. In a way, having something to run away from had helped him throw himself into his new job.

Had she been running from something as well?

Suddenly, he felt guilty. She had asked him to wait to hear of her past, and he felt like he was going behind her back, asking things of Father Julian. But he couldn’t help the curiosity, it wasn’t as though he had much else to occupy him nowadays, besides the latest crock story involving one of Sparrow’s escapades.

“Is she happy?” Father Julian asked suddenly, taking James entirely by surprise. He blinked.

“…I hardly think _I_ am the best person to ask.”

“Perhaps, but you are the only one available just at the moment,” he replied wryly. “What do you think?”

_Happy?_ He had never thought about it. Miss Florence could never be called ‘bubbly’ or ‘jubilant’, but…

He settled for, “I think…she’s doing the best she can with what she has.”

“Ah.” The silence was highlighted by a particularly loud creak from somewhere near the roof. “I suppose that is all one can ask for, at the end of the day.”

“I suppose it is.”

Another silence passed, and suddenly Father Julian turned to face him, his eyes seeming to glow with reflected candlelight. “I hope you stay with her. She trusts you.”

“So she says,” he said, shifting uncomfortably. “Though how she could feel justified in that decision I couldn’t say.”

“I trust her judgement. She wouldn’t bring just anyone up here, you know. Good night, my son.”

He stood, ending the conversation as abruptly as he had started it, leaving James alone before a broken altar.

Flo lay in her bed, eyes open, though they certainly weren’t looking at the ceiling. It was…strange, being here, lying in her old cot after all these years. The same somewhat scratchy linen, the same creaks and whistles of the stone cooling and the tropical breeze blowing, the same smell of stone and smoke and dust. She thought she would be comforted by it, and part of her was, but it also seemed…wrong, somehow. Off, in a way she couldn’t describe. It was all the same, but…

_But_ I _am different_ , she realized. _I am not fourteen anymore_. Neither was she frightened, useless, and dying of homesickness. She was in a better place, emotionally, even if only because she was numb.

She sighed. What a mess they were in. She didn’t often visit Father Julian, and she was beginning to have an inkling of why. It was not that he was trying at all, but being here made her feel…like this. Simultaneously the child she had been and the adult she now was, and those two parts of her had vastly different ideas and feelings about everything. She wasn’t used to emotional turmoil, not recently. Life had been almost disgustingly predictable for the past several years, and even the addition of Mr. James hadn’t changed much about it, not until now. He’d been folded into the routine, as neatly as flour added to a dough being kneaded.

Until…all this.

An image of him passing her, holding the thrown knife with a steely look in his eyes, no sign of his usual fuzziness or melancholy, drifted before her thoughts. She had been terrified and annoyed because of it at the time, but she could admit now it was a sweet gesture. Heroic, even, a term she had little cause to apply to anybody these days.

She felt a little warm flutter in her chest and sat bolt upright, scowling. _Warm fluttering?_ What kind of nonsense was that? Oh she’d felt it once or twice before, and it never ended well. About the only time she’d felt this way about someone, indulged it, and not regretted it later was with Arabella, and there had been plenty of extenuating circumstances there. Along with the fact that Arabella was almost impossible to not get along with.

No, there was certainly no _warm fluttering_ here. She was still tired after all those shifts and not herself, which must also be why she had not stopped Father Julian from regaling them both with tales of her youth. Why should she want him to know? What was there to gain?

Throwing herself back down and pulling the blanket over her head, she thought of getting to bathe tomorrow and forced herself to sleep.

James woke up in the morning shaking, feeling sick. Confused and disoriented, he tried to sit up, searching for the water pitcher that had been left on the bedside table. As his eyes slowly focused, he saw the pitcher and the cup, but realized his hands were trembling too hard for him to safely pour any.

“Mr. James?” came Miss Florence’s voice from beyond the door. He tried to reply, but all that came out was a croak. There was a pause and a knock, which he now realized must have woken him. It was still quite dark, he realized, though not pitch black. He coughed and tried again.

“Yes?” He sounded weak, even to himself, and there was another moment of silence.

“I’m coming in,” she announced, and a moment later seemed to be at his side. She said nothing as he tried to focus on her and keep the shaking under control, though it wasn’t working. After a moment, she took his face in her hands, looking into his eyes. He tried to ask what she was doing, but the words didn’t seem to want to come. Then she was pouring a glass of water for him, and he drank, though some spilled down his chin. When he pushed the cup away, she put it down and stood.

“Wait here,” she said quietly, though he was in no fit state to do anything else. Disappearing out the door, she returned a few minutes later carrying a bottle of wine. She poured some into his water cup and held it to his lips. He scowled and shook his head.

“There’s no need to—”

“Yes there is,” she said, in a tone that, while not loud, brooked no further argument. “You need it.”

Hating that she was right, he drank, managing not to spill this time. She sat on the edge of the bed and patiently held the cup for him until the shaking had subsided a little.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, when he had finished the cup.

He snorted. “For what?”

“Forgetting. You need at least a little,” she said, nodding at the bottle. He snorted again, though it was more a growl.

“How do you know?”

She shrugged. “I see it every day. It’s ok. Wait here,” she said again. He stared after her as she left again, feeling slightly better physically and absolutely sick emotionally. What with the rush of the fight and the intrigue of new places and finding out more about Miss Florence, he’d managed to forget for a time what he was. The weight of being ex-Commodore Norrington had not been removed, but it had been pushed to the back of his mind, but now it surged back, like a bucket of tar upended over his head.

Whatever Miss Florence said, it most certainly was _not_ ok. He buried his face in his hands, and didn’t realize she was back until something prodded his shoulder. Looking up, he saw a banana being proffered in his face.

“You should eat something,” she said. “Then I will put you to work. You’ll feel much better after a bath.”

In the blue-grey light of dawn, there was something indescribably soft about her smile, and he felt it slice into the hard ball of misery at his core, breaking its surface like a shovel into hard earth. Silently, he accepted the banana and ate it, looking out the window at the first rays of sunlight.

“Feel better?” she asked when he’d finished. He nodded, and she stood, taking the peel from him. “Good. Come with me.”

Nonplussed, but glad at least that he now felt able to stand, he followed her out of the room. Making a quick detour to the chicken coop to toss the banana peel in, she led him into a small room with bare stone floors and walls, barely more than a closet next to the kitchen.

“What is this?”

“The bathroom,” she answered with a smile. It had probably been chosen more for its proximity to the well than anything else, he thought as he looked around. In it stood a large, imposing black cauldron, held up on bricks. There were scorch marks on its underbelly and sooty remains of previous fires on the floor below it. There was also, inexplicably, a wooden crate sitting in it. Both were rather dusty. A large, shallow wooden tub was propped against the wall, looking like it had been used somewhat more recently. He nodded at the cauldron.

“And that?”

“The bath,” she said, as though it should be patently obvious. “We dust, then fill the big pot, light a fire, and—”

“Boil ourselves?” he asked dubiously. “This looks more as though you’re intending to make a cannibal stew, Miss Florence.”

“You can go after I finish then, when the water cools,” she sniffed.

“What is the crate for?” he asked, not assured.

“You sit in it, so you don’t touch hot metal.”

“Ah, yes of course. Far more sensible than _not_ getting into a boiling cauldron in the first place.”

“If I want a cold bath, I will just go to the beach,” she said dismissively, waving a hand. “If you ever go in a hot spring, you will understand. The water must be hot.”

_That_ hot? “If you insist.”

“I do. Now stop talking and help me clean.”

They spent the next two hours wiping away the dust, filling the cauldron from the well (which took a majority of the time, as with only the two of them it was too far to make a bucket chain, and they got quite tired going back and forth), and lighting a fire. At some point, they heard footsteps in the kitchen, and paused to bid Father Julian good morning before resuming work.

As they took a moment to catch their breath and survey their handiwork, he looked around the room again. With its narrow windows near the ceiling and much of the mortar gone from between the stones that made up the walls, possibly from the steam, there was a surprising amount of light in here. Following the lines of sunlight, he now noticed a bigger gap near the floor. It looked deliberate. He pointed to it.

“What is that for?”

She glanced from the fire to where he was pointing and replied simply, “Drain.”

And that seemed to be it. He watched her watch the fire, the wooden crate set against the wall next to what he had been told was the laundry tub. He didn’t trust it. Being boiled alive was a capital punishment, not a reward for two hours’ hard labor. Though he was feeling rather sticky and grimy and looking forward to being clean for once later on.

He’d never expected to encounter cultural differences when it came to this. Surely hygiene was hygiene; how many ways could there be of getting oneself clean? But no, apparently not. It wasn’t that he’d _never_ had a hot bath before, it was simply that there was usually a secondary vessel, _not_ red hot at the bottom, that would get filled with heated water, then set _in front of_ a fireplace and not over it. Of course, the water didn’t stay hot for long, and could be quite murky if you were the last of the family to use it. But that was fine, it was…utility. No one expected it to be _fun_. But Miss Florence was humming to herself as she fed twigs to the fire, looking as pleasantly excited as he had ever seen her look.

“I think Father Julian must have left breakfast for us. You should go eat,” she said, eyes never leaving the fire. He suddenly realized he was ravenous. The banana felt like ages ago.

“And yourself?”

“I will eat later,” she said, waving vaguely at the burgeoning flames, and though he was torn for a moment over arguing, she seemed firmly settled in, so he let his stomach win out and ducked into the kitchen.

Father Julian was sitting there, sipping a mug of tea, the remains of his breakfast in front of him. On the table lay a fresh loaf and square of cheese, as well as some slices of sausage and a number of fruits.

“Good morning,” James said, feeling slightly awkward after their late-night encounter. The old man smiled.

“Good morning. Come, eat.”

Sliding into the chair he had sat in yesterday, he did so. Father Julian stood and poured him a cup of tea before settling back in his own seat.

“Did you manage to sleep?” he asked mildly.

“Ah, yes. Thank you,” he replied. 

“Chased you out, did she?” he continued, nodding to the door that led to the so-called bathroom.

“…I suppose you could say that.”

“No change there, then, I see. In some ways I am relieved.”

James paused, bread halfway to his mouth. “May I ask what you mean by that?”

Father Julian chuckled. “I take it you have no children of your own, Mr. Norrington?”

The question took him aback, and it took a moment for him to reply, “I do not.”

“Then perhaps you will understand one day when or if you do. Florence is the closest thing I have to a child of my own, and the fact of the matter is she has quite grown up. As all children must, of course…but it is nice, you see, to think that she is still someone I recognize.”

_‘still someone I recognize’_ adhered itself to the inside of his skull the instant it entered, throwing down roots and crawling into his spine. He wasn’t sure why.

“I see,” he lied. Father Julian gave him a knowing look and simply smiled.

Some thirty minutes later, Miss Florence came out of the room and traded places with James, as she sat down to eat and he went to keep an eye on the fire. Father Julian had been most insistent that no flame be left unattended, which, while a wise sentiment in general, James felt was slightly unnecessary in this case. There was hardly anything that could burn in this room, even if a spark strayed. Still, he dutifully sat in front of the fire, occasionally feeding it twigs and other detritus they’d collected, more out of boredom than because it needed it. Experimentally, he held his hand over the water, feeling nothing more than the faintest suggestion of warmth, which was only to be expected with the amount of water in the cauldron. No wonder Miss Florence had insisted on an early start; this was liable to take all day.

Again, he had to wonder why she bothered. While they worked to set it up, she’d told him that she’d put together this (rather dangerous, he had to add) method herself when she’d been living here, and had burned herself a few times while experimenting. The appeal of a hot bath seemed significantly less in a land without proper winters, when even in mid-January one could do without a coat. There were easier ways of getting clean.

But that wasn’t the point, was it? It was homesickness. He felt a pang of pity when he realized it, and felt somewhat stupid for not realizing it sooner. It was a depressing thought, though he hardly had any other kind these days.

He realized he’d drifted into a sort of trance only when the door opened and Miss Florence entered again, boldly sticking her hand into the water and pulling a face when she found it lukewarm. She had a bundle of things in her arms, and she laid them down by the laundry tub. They turned out to be two large towels, a smaller towel, a chunk of soap, and a thick brown robe.

“For you,” she said. “You can leave your clothes in here and I will wash them later.”

“I am perfectly capable of washing them myself,” he said, a little stiffly. She raised an eyebrow at him, then shrugged.

“Good. Then you can do it. Juli won’t take baths, so you can use the water.”

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. “’Juli’?”

She laughed, and it sounded free and light in a way he’d never heard before. “’Julian’ was too long for me, before.”

A corner of his mouth twitched upward at that, and she settled down next to him.

“Shall we have a lesson?” she said.

“What? Oh. Yes, I suppose.” He’d forgotten about that for the moment, which was odd, since the lessons were the entire conceit of their relationship. Weren’t they?

It took him a few moments to remember where they had left off, then they spent the next hour or so running through recitations, most of which she had no problems with by now. He tried to remember more from lessons taken at his mother’s knee, but all he could remember were nursery rhymes, and he couldn’t bring himself to speak them. They were too soft and warm, too alien to who he was now, and he could still hear them said in his mother’s voice.

“Mr. James?”

He started as he realized that he had been silent for some time and flickered a smile at her.

“Sorry. Where were we?”

She looked at him a moment longer, then stood and tested the water, which was steaming. Withdrawing her hand, he saw her fingertips were reddening, but she was grinning and knelt to damp down the fire to embers.

“ _I_ am going to have a bath. Shoo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's kind of ridiculous how much bloody time i sank into figuring out the bath setup, only to just kinda throw it all out the window and go with 'a big pot :)' because i wasn't finding the information i wanted. i've never been good at research deep dives. all i know is that my grandma's house has an old-style bath where you light a fire beneath it and then sit on a wooden pallet so you don't burn yourself on the bottom of the tub and i wanted to have something like that. why didn't i just cut it? i write fanfiction, it should be abundantly obvious that i like to torture myself by now
> 
> edit: ahhhhhhhh 
> 
> unfortunately it's paperwork season and there isn't going to be a new chapter this month. i've got it half-written but i don't think i can get it into anything close to something i'd be ok with posting yet, so hopefully next month? sorry folks


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